


Post-Bellum Blues (Featuring the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company H)

by imadra_blue



Series: The National Anthem in Minor Key [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon - Movie, Complete, Disturbing Themes, Drama, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Novella, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Romance, Sequel, Slice of Life, Suspense, The Avengers as Supporting Characters, Tragedy, memory recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now living in the Avengers' Tower, Bucky deals with the consequences of breaking Tony Stark's favorite window and being treated like an incompetent kindergartner.  He slowly tries to recover his memory, though Steve has difficulties adjusting to who he is now.  With a damaged shoulder, compromised cybernetic arm, and HYDRA assassins looking to end him, Bucky must go into hiding with Steve.  They soon grow closer as pieces of Bucky's memory fall into place.  Bucky's past chases at his heels, and when it catches up to him, he may lose everything he cares about.</p><p>..</p><p>(Completed.  This is a sequel to "Boris and Natasha Go to the Red Room (His Name's Not Boris).")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Avengers Dissemble (That's Not a Fountain, That's a Crime Scene)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Some dark things happen later in the story, including torture, rape references, and some other nasty stuff. I do not warn for things in detail. Not every story is robbed of its impact when warnings are given, but I feel this one would be. So read at your own risk.  
>  **Beta Readers:** Many, many thanks to Sain and Erin C. for their wonderful work helping me improve the story and prose. All mistakes that remain are mine alone.  
>  **Story Notes:** This novella is complete and ends the series (for now). The title references the iconic World War II song "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" by The Andrews Sisters.  
>  **Series Notes:** The first part of this series, "No Sleep in Brooklyn (The Beastie Boys Lied)" is an optional prologue. This is a direct sequel to the second part of the series, "Boris and Natasha Go to the Red Room (His Name's Not Boris)," however. If you don't want to read it, I will provide a brief summary below to help you understand this novella's setting.
> 
> ..
> 
> Summary of "Boris and Natasha Go to the Red Room (His Name's Not Boris)":
> 
> Natasha finds a confused Bucky at the Smithsonian shortly after the teaser ending of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. He only has memory fragments, mostly of Steve as a boy and a little redheaded girl. Natasha asks for his help with HYDRA, so he follows her to Russia. Over their timed spent together, he feels a growing connection to her. When they enter the HYDRA base, Bucky discovers it's an old, abandoned KGB facility called the Red Room Academy. As Natasha tells him the history of the Red Room, his memory starts to fall into place. He recalls he was Natasha's trainer in the Red Room when she was only a small girl. Raised as a child soldier, Natasha grew up as Bucky's shadow in numerous dangerous missions. They forged a shaky bond, seemingly erased every time his memory was reset. When a young Natasha pleaded with him to escape with her, he refused. Later, he was sent to kill her when she was a new SHIELD Agent. He very nearly did, though he purposefully took a non-lethal shot due to almost remember her. Bucky finally remembers her in the present. Overcome with emotion, Bucky and Natasha forge a new familial bond. After they exit the facility, Steve Rogers arrives to take them both home to the Avengers' Tower.

...

"I'm not saying _you_ can't stay here, Cap," Stark explained, waving an iPad for emphasis. "You're a nice, clean-cut American boy who says 'yes, sir' and 'yes, ma'am' without irony. And I'd like to think that if I asked, you'd bake me a delicious homemade apple pie. I'm just sayin' that I'm not really all that comfortable with a guy living in my tower who killed people for Communist HYDRA—or was it HYDRA Communists?—for seventy years or so."

Bucky continued to lean against the back wall, but lifted his head to glare at Stark. His left shoulder ached, and the pain stretched to his neck and back, as if he were constantly straining. The pain only made Stark even more unbearable than usual. The first two months in the Avengers Tower had been much quieter before Tony Stark returned from his business in China.

"And now, he's looking at me again," Stark said, glancing warily at Bucky. "I thought we agreed he could only be here while we had this conversation if he would stop looking at me."

"Never mind that. His former allegiance to HYDRA is not on the table for discussion, especially since you armed a number of them yourself not so long ago without even being brainwashed," Rogers said, the patience in his voice wearing thin. "And I thought this was _our_ tower now?"

"Let's pretend I'm the one who created the energy source this place runs on and that I'm paying all its property taxes for a minute," Stark said. "And since I have no particular rejoinder for the comment about arming HYDRA, let's drop that angle. Let's focus on the present. Your new boyfriend just destroyed one of my favorite windows. That glass was experimental. I designed it myself to be as strong as steel."

"He's not my new boyfriend."

"Okay, sorry, lost track of the timeline for a moment: your old boyfriend then. Whatever. My window is broken."

"One would think you'd be more grateful, considering that a HYDRA assassin just went flying through that broken window," Natasha said. She continued to stand by the broken window in question, leaning out to look below. "By the way, you're going to want a clean-up crew for that new Iron Man fountain you installed."

Stark gestured at Bucky, but glared at Rogers. "So on top of breaking my favorite window, he also broke my new fountain."

"It's not broken," Natasha said. "It's just… splattered with bits of HYDRA."

"See, look at that," Rogers said, unsmiling. "Your fountain's not broken. It's just a crime scene."

Stark glared at everyone—everyone except Bucky. He refused to meet Bucky's gaze. "How do we even know the assassin was HYDRA?"

Bucky stepped forward. He couldn't let Natasha and Rogers fight his battles for him. "He said 'Hail, HYDRA' when he tried to garrote me. I'd say that narrows it down. Also, it wasn't very good steel."

"What?" Stark finally leveled his gaze at Bucky.

"Your experimental window. You said you designed the glass to be as strong as steel. It broke pretty easily when I punched it with my metal arm. The steel you designed the window after clearly wasn't very good. You should try harder next time."

Natasha rubbed her lips together, her eyes dancing. Rogers cleared his throat. Stark continued to stare at Bucky. Bucky waited.

Stark finally turned back to face Rogers. "Pepper says he's sexy. I'm not into guys, just to be clear, but I'm starting to see it. He can stay, but if he breaks anything else, he's out. I don't like it when people break my stuff. Only I get to do that. I'll give him a second chance because he's your boyfriend—and you desperately need to get laid, Cap—but he's an awful lot of trouble. Now I have to find Maria Hill, so she can explain to the police that this is an Avengers matter while they clean assassin bits out of my fountain. I knew I hired her for a good reason." He strode out as if he'd won the argument, but Bucky thought he more resembled a cat trying to pretend it hadn't just fallen off a shelf.

Rogers rubbed his face. "He's not my boyfriend," he muttered, though Stark had already left.

Natasha walked over to Bucky. "Don't pay Stark any mind. He won't kick you out, even if you break another window. He's a yappy little dog. He just wants attention."

"I've seen the footage of what he can do in his suit," Bucky said. "He's not that little."

"More importantly, are you all right?" Rogers asked. He moved too close, and Bucky took a step back. The only person he could stand to have in his space was Natasha. And that was only because she was as close to family as he had.

"I'm fine. I deflected the bullet with my arm." Bucky held up his metal arm, then regretted it. There'd been no damage, other than a black mark from the bullet's impact, but he'd clearly strained his shoulder even further. "The even more important question is how a HYDRA assassin got in here."

Natasha nodded. "And why he went after you, rather than anyone else."

Rogers crossed his arms, still studying Bucky. "Was that the first person you killed since S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed?"

Bucky found the question odd, but he considered it. "I suppose it was." He studied Rogers, noting the obvious and familiar concern on his face. Bucky looked away. That concern wasn't for him. It was for a memory of a man who died during World War II.

"I'll take care of this, Bucky," Rogers said. "Don't worry about it."

Bucky's brows furrowed, and he glanced between Natasha and Rogers. Natasha looked down at her shoes, but Rogers didn't look away. "So you're not even letting me investigate my own attempted assassination?" Bucky asked.

"It's best you stay here to—" Rogers began, but Bucky cut him off.

"You invited me to join the Avengers, but I think today made it clear that I am not even truly being considered for the Avengers. Apparently, I am here so the Avengers can watch me." Bucky glared at Natasha. "Your friend, Barton, he is always watching me like the Hawk they call him. He doesn't even hide his suspicion."

"Clint does that with everyone," Natasha said, waving her hand. "Yesterday, he wouldn't stop watching Banner after he opened a bag of chips at lunch and they exploded all over his lap."

It was clear that both Natasha and Rogers agreed Bucky had no place doing anything outside the Avengers Tower. He would not win the argument and saw no point in continuing the discussion. He started to walk away, but Rogers caught his arm. His hand felt familiar, though his grip felt too strong. Bucky paused and glanced back.

"Buck, you need time. We all need time. I needed time, too, when I first woke up," Rogers said, his tone maddeningly gentle. Bucky's eyes narrowed.

"Just let him go, Steve. You're pissing him off," Natasha said. After the space of two heartbeats, Steve's grip eased around Bucky's arm. Bucky shook Rogers off of him and left the room.

…

The Gym in the Avengers Tower was not like any other gym in New York City. It took up eight stories in the middle of the building. The equipment allowed for the strength and agility training of supersoldiers as well as for practice with the high-tech gear that many Avengers and Avengers' recruits used. Currently, the Gym had a safety net stretched out across the bottom. Up top, Sam Wilson trained with his new prototype wings while Clint Barton shot at him. If Bucky's sense of humor had been more advanced, he might have even been amused by the idea of man using a bow to shoot at another man codenamed the Falcon. But he only sat to one side on the bleachers and watched with his usual non-expression.

Wilson flew down towards Bucky once he saw him and landed on the net just above Bucky's head. "These wings are even better than my old ones. Stark's tech game is strong. They're extremely durable." Bucky recalled Wilson's last set of wings—and ripping them off rather easily. Wilson could certainly use durable. 

Bucky watched without comment as Wilson climbed down from the net. He glistened with sweat and an arm wound had bled through his green shirt. Ever since Stark had returned to the tower with the new robotic wings in hand, Wilson had trained nearly non-stop. Apparently, Wilson and Stark had become good enough friends that Stark kept working to improve Wilson's wings. Everyone seemed to immediately like Sam Wilson. He was the exact opposite of Bucky Barnes.

Barton landed flat-footed on the ground next to Bucky. "Heard you had some trouble with HYDRA sneaking around upstairs." His gaze was the same as ever, filled with suspicion. The expression set Bucky's teeth on edge, but he tried to remember that this man meant something to Natasha. He had given her another life, a better life, away from the Red Room. He had done what Bucky should have done for her all those years ago.

"The HYDRA agent wasn't nearly as much trouble as Stark."

"Sounds about right."

Wilson landed on the floor in front of Bucky and shrugged his wing harness off. "Stark's cool. He's just—"

"—an attention whore," Barton said, finishing Wilson's sentence for him.

Wilson sighed. "That's not what I was going to say." He grabbed a first aid kit nearby and started to treat his wound. After a moment, Barton helped him.

"It's not Stark that's keeping me prisoner in this tower," Bucky said.

Barton and Wilson stared and then exchanged glances. Almost simultaneously, they took a step back. Bucky sighed when he realized it wasn't because of what he said. Behind him, he sensed Natasha without even looking. He turned to face Natasha. She'd crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Bucky didn't entirely blame Wilson and Barton for backing off. She had learned how to intimidate others from him. Silence worried people more than words. He returned her stare.

"I'm going to move you to a new room," she finally said after a long moment. "Let's get you packed."

Seeing little point in arguing, Bucky followed Natasha out. She said nothing on the way back to his room. Her silence while folding his shirts was unnerving. Bucky had few belongings to pack—largely clothes given to him by Natasha or random antiques that Rogers kept giving him in hopes that they would jog his memory. He had only one combat knife. No one had given him a gun yet. Apparently, no one thought he was ready for a weapon. He didn't ask, but he felt exposed without one.

Natasha led him down the hall to a new room with an armful of clothes. She unlocked the door and set his things down. It wasn't until they entered his new room on another floor that Natasha broke the silence. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked. 

Moving things left Bucky's shoulder with a constant ache. He rubbed his shoulder as he answered. "I wasn't wounded in the exchange. Just a small ache from the sharp movement."

Natasha glanced back at him, her green eyes nearly gray in the waning twilight filtering into his new room. "That's not what I meant."

"The man attacked me, so I killed him. I didn't think about it."

"I see." Natasha considered Bucky for a long moment. "Steve wants to give you time, but you don't want it, do you?

Bucky stared down at his new mattress. He felt disarmed by Natasha's question. It was as if she could peer inside Bucky and see things about him even he couldn't see. She understood him in ways only family could—she had lived much like him before S.H.I.E.L.D. He sighed and reflected on an answer to her question. Time was not his friend. He could only watch so much television and do so much training in the Gym before he returned to the internet to search for every scrap of information he could find on himself. But no matter how much he read, he learned nothing. He had no more memories than he had before coming to the Avengers Tower.

"It's not that he doesn't trust you," she said. "By now, he realizes you're not going to go out and destroy the world. But he is afraid the world will destroy you. He thinks you're a piece of cracked glass right now. Make the wrong move, and it shatters."

Bucky thought of the glass, supposedly strong as steel, that had shattered under his metal fist before he tossed the HYDRA assassin through the window. The man's face looked surprised as he fell, his mouth open but no sound came out. Fear had filled his eyes all the way down. Bucky opened and closed his fist, trying to determine what he felt.

"But really," Natasha continued, "it's Steve that needs the time. He needs time to adjust to who you are now."

Bucky nodded and started to put the bedclothes on his new bed.

"I'll see you in the morning. Now, I have a situation to help deal with." As Natasha left, her hand ghosting over his back, Bucky tried not to think too much about their conversation—or the fresh memory of the man he'd just killed.

Down at the bottom of the Avengers Tower, police sirens wailed.

…

The police never once questioned Bucky. The next morning, Natasha told him that she and Maria Hill had handled the situation, and there was nothing to worry about. The Avengers could investigate the matter internally, she said, and then left him at Banner's lab to have his shoulder inspected. She'd remembered his comment about his pain from the night before. She never forgot anything he said, it seemed.

"I'm not actually a medical doctor, you know," Banner told Bucky as Bucky stripped his shirt off. His graying brown hair fell in his face as he bent to inspect Bucky's shoulder with a holographic scanner. "But everyone seems to think I am."

"You possess medical knowledge," Bucky said, glancing about the laboratory. Numerous holographic devices and computer screens glowed, all revealing data incomprehensible to him.

"I do. But, technically, Stark ought to be looking at your cybernetic arm, not me."

"Stark doesn't like me."

Banner glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Stark doesn't know you. You probably terrify him. The way you look at people is a bit terrifying. They can see you already working out the best way to kill them should things go south."

"You don't seem terrified." Bucky studied Banner's haggard face. He didn't know much about Banner beyond that he could turn into a large, green berserker and seemed a competent medical doctor despite not actually being one.

"That's because I've seen worse."

Bucky didn't say anything as he recalled the footage of the Hulk. He imagined Banner had indeed seen far worse. Nice to know Bucky wasn't the only monster living in the Avengers Tower.

"Anyways," Banner said, tapping a finger to Bucky's scar along the seam of his metal arm and pointing at a holographic screen that showed the x-ray scan of his shoulder, "whoever did this did a number on you. HYDRA apparently repaired the damage enough so you could use the arm, but they didn't care about your pain levels. It's only going to hurt worse the longer it goes. We'd have to do surgery to take care of it, but Stark would have to help so the cybernetic wiring to your spine stays stable. I don't do cybernetics."

"You can do the surgery?"

"Give me a couple of weeks to study up on it, and I can."

"If you want to do it, then do it."

Before Banner could respond, Rogers walked into the laboratory. He paused a few feet from the examining table Bucky sat upon and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Everything okay? Natasha said you hurt your arm."

Irritated by Rogers's insistent concern for him, Bucky glanced at Banner. "He really wants to make sure I haven't snapped and tried to stab you with your own surgical implants."

Rogers looked down, smiling a bit. "Dr. Banner is actually the last person I'd be worried about you killing, Buck."

"Oh, I'm sure he could kill me easy enough," Banner said, turning to input data into one of his holographic screens. "It's the Other Guy that might give him a bit of trouble."

"So what's the word, Doc?" Rogers asked, turning from Bucky to face Banner.

"It's fine, I'll just sit here, in my own examination, quietly, invisibly, so I don't get in your way," Bucky remarked. He wasn't entirely sure what caused him to say that, beyond that it seemed to have sprung out his growing irritation with being treated like an incompetent child.

Rogers snapped his gaze back to Bucky. "That—that sounded just like you, Bucky," he said, his voice cracking. His blue eyes were wide.

Bucky looked away, finding that expression too much to deal with. Most of Rogers's expressions did that to him.

Banner glanced between them. "The arm works fine, but scar tissue is creating pressure on his cybernetic connections." He pointed at the holoscreen, where a tissue mass obscured some of Bucky's metal wires. "It's pain, mostly. I can give him some painkillers, but he's going to need surgery to fix that. I'll have to study up on it and get Stark's help. Mr. Barnes already consented to the procedure."

"Good." Rogers continued to study Bucky.

"Here are the painkillers." Banner handed him a rattling bottle. "Try not to wrench your shoulder the next time you kill someone."

Bucky stood up and pulled his shirt on. It hurt, but he kept the pain off his face. He walked out without further comment.

"Thanks, Doc," Rogers called, and jogged after Bucky. "Bucky, wait!"

Bucky paused and glanced back at Rogers without turning his head. He waited for Rogers to speak.

Rogers sighed. "Bucky, I'm on your side. You know that, right?" He looked upset again.

Bucky looked away. Seeing Rogers upset hurt worse than his shoulder. He didn't know how to stop Rogers from looking like that. He simply shrugged with one shoulder in response.

"Tomorrow night, how about you and I go get some dinner? We can head to Brooklyn."

"Will Natasha be there?"

Rogers's expression changed to one resembling a man struck across the face, though Bucky could not fathom why. "I—well. She can be. If you want."

"If Natasha goes, I'll go."

"Right." Rogers nodded, staring at the wall. "I'll invite her, of course."

"Good. See you tomorrow night." Bucky continued to walk down the hall, leaving Rogers behind. "I'll be here, under careful surveillance apparently."

…

_Next ====== >_


	2. In Which Three Master Assassins Leave Captain America Broke (It's Okay, He Has a Credit Card)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they didn't order the caviar and the prime rib, at least. Also, confessing your doubts to a traumatized recovering amnesiac isn't very comforting, as it turns out. Who knew?

...

Natasha pulled up in a sleek black vehicle, wearing an equally sleek black dress. Rogers, dressed in a black suit, held open the back door for Bucky, but Bucky slid into the passenger seat by Natasha. Barton, in his own suit, climbed in through the open back door instead. Bucky wasn't sure how Barton got invited, but he was fairly certain Natasha was behind it. She seemed determined to make Bucky like Barton. Thus far, her determination hadn't proven to be enough.

"You're not going to want to cuddle while we're back here, are you?" Barton deadpanned when Rogers sat next to him. "I mean, it's tempting, but I've already made it clear that if I'm going to play for the other team, Captain, it's going to be for Thor."

Rogers closed the back door. "We're all one team, Barton. The Avengers."

"That's not the team I was referring to."

"We're going to dinner, not to play baseball. And Thor's not coming. He's taking a night with Ms. Foster."

Natasha glanced into the rearview mirror and shook her head. Bucky leaned a bit so he could glance at it, too. Rogers sat close to the door, arms crossed, seeming uncomfortable. Barton, on the other hand, was smirking.

"See, Steve," Natasha said, "it's a joke. The team he meant was—"

"Homosexuality. Yeah, I got that from the remark about cuddling." Rogers glared at Barton. "Son, you do realize that homosexuality was invented before the twenty-first century, right?"

"Sure. But you oldtimers liked to pretend it didn't exist."

"Be that as it may, I am familiar with the concept, and your jokes—and Stark's jokes—are actually just irritating. They're also mildly offensive to homosexuals, reducing them to a joke. I thought the twenty-first century was better than that."

"Okay, fair enough." Barton held up his hands. "My apologies."

Natasha pulled out of the Avengers' Tower's driveway, past the Iron Man fountain still cordoned off by yellow police tape. A man in a white biohazard suit stood on a ladder, wiping the blood off the statue. "No leads on that, but we're still looking. And trying to identify the assassin. Forensics is having a hard time thanks to him falling roughly fifty floors down onto a fountain." She pulled out onto the main road and made her way through traffic in a fashion not unlike that of a drag racer.

"Next time, I'll be sure to throw the assassin out of a mere thirty story window in the other direction. Oh, and open the window first," Bucky said. He tugged on his own suit jacket. When Natasha had brought it to him earlier that day, she said it was perfectly tailored for him, but it felt like a straitjacket. He didn't mind the ponytail she had slicked his hair back into, though. It made it easier to see.

Barton raised an eyebrow. "You learned sarcasm fast."

"Remembered it, more like." Rogers leaned back into his seat and crossed his arms. "Bucky used to be better at sarcasm than any of you kids."

"So they invented sarcasm before the twenty-first century, too?" Natasha asked, smirking into the rearview mirror. "Weird."

Barton started coughing violently and leaned against the door, smiling.

Rogers sighed and pulled a cough drop from his suit jacket. He pushed it into Barton's hand. "Here. Seems you could use this."

"For the record, that's why I invited Clint," Natasha told Bucky in Russian. "I needed someone along who could appreciate my humor."

Bucky nodded and responded in Russian. "I understand. He's your friend." He turned to the window. After a moment, he decided to voice his feelings. Natasha deserved that from him, at least. "He did all the things I should've done for you. He gave you the chance to be something else. He spared you from death."

"Why do all the men I know want to torture themselves? You're blaming the wrong person. You were unmade, then used and abused. I know what that's like. So does Barton. I don't blame you, and neither does anyone else in this car." Natasha glanced at Bucky, turning the corner without looking. She did so perfectly, if rather quickly. "Don't blame yourself for what you did or didn't do back then. Blame HYDRA. You only have to take responsibility for the present."

Bucky closed his eyes. Every memory that he had of Natasha as a girl hurt, reminding him of all the things he had failed to do, reminding him of his every sin in the name of his missions, but he was grateful for them. His memories of her gave them both a sort of family. And it gave Bucky one person in the Avengers Tower that he knew was on his side, not on the side of the dead man whose body he inhabited. Without her, his situation would be unbearable. He opened his eyes and nodded at her. She smiled at him and turned back to the road, stopping just in time as the lights changed red.

When Bucky glanced in the rearview mirror, he noticed Rogers staring at him, his jaw set.

…

"I'm a lucky lady," Natasha said as she sat down at their reserved table, "to have dinner with two handsome men."

"There's three men here tonight," Bucky said as he sat down next to her. The table linens were white and crisp, and the table decorations done in silver. He studied the lit candle in the center and tried not to think of how to use it as a weapon.

"Exactly. Three men, and two handsome men." Natasha gave Barton a side-glance and a raised eyebrow.

"Ouch, Captain, that's gotta hurt," Barton said. "But don't worry, the old lady two tables down thinks you're hot. She checked out your ass on the way in. She's almost your age, too."

As Rogers sighed, Bucky glanced two tables down, where an elderly woman ate a salad. She wore a glittering gold dress, and her white hair was pinned back by a golden comb. When she noticed Bucky staring, she raised an eyebrow at him and smiled.

"Oh, yeah, she definitely likes older men," Barton said. "Want me to play wingman and get her number for you?"

"Why?" Bucky asked.

Before Barton could respond, their waiter appeared and announced the day's selections. He poured champagne into their glasses, placed bread on the table, and promised to return. Everyone opened their menus, so Bucky did the same.

"Why aren't there any prices on this menu?" Rogers asked, flipping the menu over to inspect all sides. "How will I know what to order?"

"Trust me, Steve, you don't want to see the prices for this place. You're an elderly man, and we need to be gentle with your heart," Natasha said.

Bucky glanced around the dining room. White linens covered every table, and he suspected the candle holders and napkin rings were all silver. Every man in the restaurant was wearing a black suit, and the women had all donned evening gowns and jewels. Waiters bustled about in smart suits, carrying trays with silver covers. The windows gave a beautiful view of the New York City lights. Even Bucky didn't need to see the prices to know that their meal would cost a small fortune.

"Natasha, I said to make reservations at someplace decent," Rogers said, paling.

"And I did. This place is definitely decent. Gordon Ramsay's best student is executive chef."

"I don't know who that is, and I didn't bring that much cash with me."

"I know who that is," Bucky said. Everyone turned to stare at him. "He's a famous chef. I saw him on TV many times. He makes many dishes and screams at people who do not perform to his expectations. The food here should taste very good, though the executive chef may be prone to weeping."

Natasha nodded. "Exactly. These two need to watch more food programs."

Barton shook his head. "Natasha thinks with her stomach, Captain. Hope you brought a credit card."

The waiter appeared back by their table, hands folded behind his back. "May I take your orders now?"

Rogers leaned forward and gave everyone a surprisingly hard look. "I'm paying for this meal, like I said I would, but I'm not going to be a happy man if any of you order caviar and prime rib."

"Steve, I wouldn't dream of it," Natasha said, hand pressed to her chest, and ordered the lobster plate.

Barton sniffed. "Prime rib? Why would I order that when they have Beef Wellington on the menu?" He nodded at the waiter. "I'd like one of those, please."

Bucky looked up at the waiter. "You have three different kinds of pork loin dishes?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like one of each. And a Coca-Cola."

The waiter blinked and nodded. "As you wish, sir. And you, sir?" he asked, turning to Rogers.

Rogers sat back in his chair, shoulders slumped in defeat. He bowed his head. "I might as well take the prime rib now."

…

The ride home proved rather entertaining. Rogers kept staring at the credit card receipt for their dinner and muttering to himself. Every time Rogers pulled out the receipt, Barton asked him if he was going to cry. Natasha repeatedly feigned innocence about the cost of her lobster dinner and insisted her dessert was worth every penny. Bucky sat back and listened to their banter. It all sounded so familial—and familiar. When Bucky closed his eyes, he could almost see himself sitting at a smoky restaurant with red and white checkered table linens. A large pizza lay on the table between him and Rogers. Rogers was small and thin, but that didn't stop him from mowing through their pizza. They laughed, but Bucky couldn't remember about what.

"Ey," Natasha said in Russian, shaking Bucky gently. That didn't stop him from reflexively grabbing for her wrist in defense. But Natasha was ready for him and caught his hand instead. "Wake up. We're home."

Bucky sat up and glanced around, surprised that he'd fallen asleep. They had parked inside the Avengers' large underground garage. Outside, Barton unbuttoned his suit jacket and stretched. Rogers stood next to him, staring at the concrete floors, his hands in his pockets. Bucky turned back to Natasha.

"It's okay. We had a nice night." Natasha smiled. "Didn't we?"

Bucky considered the evening, filled with delicious food—he had enjoyed each of his pork dishes, as well as the dessert Natasha had ordered for him. The company had proven just as good. No one had looked at him as if he were dying of some disease. He didn't quite understand all the humor, or the references, but being around others enjoying themselves had proven enjoyable for him as well. He nodded once.

"Good. Let's get some rest."

Natasha slid out of the car. Bucky followed her, but as he passed Rogers, Rogers stepped forward. Bucky glanced at him.

"Hey, Buck, can we talk? We can take a walk in the park upstairs, if you like."

Bucky glanced at Natasha, but she was already leaving. Barton gave Bucky a two finger salute as he stepped into the elevator with her. Natasha nodded once at Bucky as the elevator doors shut.

"All right," Bucky said, feeling as awkward as he always did when left alone with Rogers.

"This way." Rogers led him up the stairs and into the private park built just behind the building. Monuments to each Avenger had been erected—Bucky was certain that had been Stark's personal touch—and a memorial for all those lost in the Battle of New York stood in the center, surrounded by red rose bushes. Rogers didn't speak until they reached the memorial.

"They keep telling me the war is over," Rogers said, studying the monument. "But it seems to me the body count is too high to pretend it is. With HYDRA still around—it's like the war never ended. It just rolled over into the shadows and continued there."

Bucky considered the memorial. He didn't remember any wars, but if he did, he expected he would think the same as Rogers. He wondered, if they erected a monument to all the people he had murdered, would it stand as high as the one he stared at now.

"Tonight was nice." Rogers turned to face him. He still had his suit perfectly buttoned, and he cut a very handsome figure in the night. "I'm glad you came. Only…" He sighed. "I'd hoped dinner could've been just me and you."

Bucky waited, wondering what Rogers's point was. Did he not like Natasha?

Rogers looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, Buck, you're not very easy to talk to anymore. At least not in English. Maybe I should learn some Russian."

"I'm as fluent in English as I am in Russian. English is fine."

"That's not my point," Rogers snapped. "You seem to not care about anything. Except for maybe Natasha."

Bucky crossed his arms. "I do care about Natasha. She's… my family."

"We used to be family, Buck. You and me. Long before Natasha was ever born."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that you were my best friend. My family. You were all I had after my mother died. And when I lost you, I felt like I'd lost everything. For half a second, I thought maybe I could start something with Peggy, but then I lost her, too." Rogers's voice broke, and he took a moment before continuing. "And now I found you again, but you're not my best friend anymore. I don't even know what we are. You act like I don't matter to you now. I can leave you and Natasha alone, if that's what you want. I can't pretend that won't hurt, but I'll respect your wishes. Just tell me something."

"I don't know."

Rogers's brow furrowed.

"That's not what you wanted to hear." Bucky sighed and rubbed his aching left shoulder. "You want me to tell you that of course you matter to me as much as you used to. But that wouldn't be the truth. I have trouble remembering what mattered to me and why. Nothing is the same. As for Natasha, she was a child, and I taught her how not to be a child anymore. I remember her the most, and none of those memories are pleasant, but they're important. It's not like she took any feelings I had for you. They're new feelings, and they belong to her. You can't have those."

Rogers rubbed his face. "God, I must sound like a jealous wife or something. I'm sorry, Bucky. I really am. I don't want those feelings. I just want the ones you used to have for me. I want to feel like I'm your friend again."

Bucky stared at him, unsure of how to respond. It seemed like a trap. Honesty would no doubt compound how upset Rogers seemed, but lying would do the same. He couldn't remember how he used to feel about Steve Rogers. He couldn't even remember who he used to be.

"I just need to know if you want me to leave you alone or not," Rogers said, bowing his head.

Bucky considered this. A part of him found Rogers compelling, powerfully so. He wanted to be near him, to understand him, to remember him. The other parts found him overwhelming, confusing, even terrifying. "I don't know," he said again.

Rogers glanced up at the sky. It seemed to Bucky that he swallowed more than usual, and it took him a long moment to speak. "Right, well. I'll let you get some rest." He walked towards the tower, brushing past Bucky as he left, his face turned away.

Bucky watched Rogers recede into the distance. He couldn't be sure, but there seemed to have been something glistening on Rogers's face.

…

_Next ===== >_


	3. The Trouble with Windows (The Glass Isn't God-Proof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark is displeased when yet another window is broken. Bucky and Steve are forced into hiding, creating an opportunity for them to grow a little closer. Or is it just further apart?

...

Bucky woke up and rolled off his bed a split second before the gun went off. A man all in black crouched at the end of the room, beside a large round hole cut into the window. Two other men were making their way into Bucky's room through the hole. Bucky narrowed his eyes and assessed his situation in a heartbeat. By the second heartbeat, he'd grabbed the large combat knife Natasha had given him from beneath his pillow and deflected another bullet with his metal arm. By the third, he'd dodged two more bullets. By the fourth, he'd reached the assassins. By the fifth, he'd snapped the first man's neck and flung a knife into the eye of the second.

And then the entire window burst inwards and lightning crackled everywhere. The hairs on the back of Bucky's neck stood up, and he instinctively dodged for cover under a table as glass rained down. He glanced behind him just in time to see Thor knock the third assassin into the wall with his large hammer. Judging by the dent in the wall, Bucky was fairly certain Thor had broken every bone in the third assassin's body.

Thor glanced around, blond hair slipping from his ponytail. Even with adrenaline coursing through his body, Bucky had to admire Thor's beauty and raw power. He really was like a storm bottled inside a man. Bucky had no trouble imagining why the Norse had worshipped him. Thor gripped his hammer with white knuckles until he saw Bucky under the table. "James Barnes! Are you hurt?"

Bucky's left shoulder throbbed as if on cue, and he rolled it as he climbed out from under the table. He stood up. "No more than usual. Thanks." He shook glass off himself. None of it had cut him, at least. It had fallen in chunks too big for that.

The door burst open, and Rogers ran in holding his shield. He glanced around wildly until he saw Bucky and the crumpled bodies of the three assassins. Behind him, Natasha and Stark made their way into the room.

"Were you hurt?" Natasha demanded, her sharp gaze boring into Bucky.

"No. I'm fine."

Stark's gaze fell on the gaping hole in the wall where his window used to be. A light evening breeze blew in, ruffling everyone's hair. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he said, picking up a large chunk of glass by his foot.

"I didn't do it." Bucky pointed at Thor. "He did."

Thor smiled. "Indeed! Upon my return to the tower, I spied a handful of villains scaling the side and making their way into one of the rooms. Suspecting a cowardly ambush, I directed Jane to a safe location and flew up to investigate the situation."

Stark waved around the chunk of glass. "Investigate? You call this an investigation? This was experimental—oh, why am I bothering. You'll just go on about how Asgardian glass is so great it can be used to deflect meteor strikes or whatever."

"Well, it can," Thor said.

Stark turned to Rogers. "Can I kick an Avenger out of the Avengers Tower?"

"No," Rogers said without hesitation.

"And what about you?" Stark demanded of Bucky. "Are you an assassin magnet or something? Do you put out pheromones only assassins can smell, giving them an uncontrollable desire to kill you? Can you make it so you only attract pacifists?"

Bucky felt his right temple throb. It was becoming a common occurrence whenever Stark spoke to him.

"Steve, look," Natasha said, pointing at one of the assassins whose mask she had pulled off. It was the man whose neck Bucky had broken. His glassy eyes stared at nothing.

Rogers glanced over and scowled. "That's one of Rumlow's men. I remember him. He attacked me in the elevator at the Triskelion."

"Rumlow? Who the hell is Rumlow?" Stark asked. His cell phone rang, lighting up in his pants pocket as it played a rock song with the refrain "I am Iron Man." The throbbing in Bucky's temple grew worse. Stark answered. "Yeah? Oh, hello." He was silent for a moment. "I'm with them now. I'll let them know." He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at Rogers and Natasha. "Maria says that forensics finally identified the first assassin. She said to tell you it was one of Brock Rumlow's men, too. Whoever the hell that is."

"What does that mean?" Bucky asked.

"It means this isn't going to stop until we find him," Rogers said, his voice hard.

Natasha studied Bucky almost sadly. "He was a HYDRA sleeper agent in S.H.I.E.L.D. We used to work with him. And—" She glanced at Rogers before turning back to Bucky. "—he was one of your handlers."

Bucky sat down.

…

The Avengers were having a lively discussion about what to do. Or least it seemed lively through the glass surrounding their conference room. Bucky sat in one of the chairs outside, watching them. Rogers stood at attention, working his jaw. Natasha circled the group, prowling like a hunting cat. Barton sat at the table, hand over his mouth, saying little. Stark kept arguing about something, Thor apparently had a lot of opinions to share, and Wilson looked concerned. Banner showed them a scan of Bucky's cybernetic arm on one of his holoscreens. Stark pushed past them to point at something. Bucky wondered if recent events would delay his shoulder surgery. He also wondered if the Avengers would ever treat him like a grown man, rather than a traumatized child.

Natasha and Rogers started arguing. Everyone else edged away from Natasha. She was the smallest and the lightest of all the Avengers, yet she had enough presence to intimidate every single man in that room. Bucky smiled a bit at that. Natasha was his protégé, after all. After a moment, she seemed to have won the argument and exited the conference room.

"Everything packed?" Natasha asked, glancing at the bags by Bucky's feet.

"Yes."

Natasha frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Bucky sighed and rubbed his shoulder. "I suffered no injuries beyond the pain in my shoulder. If you're referring to my emotional state, I still have no particular emotions for the men who tried to kill me."

"I'm not talking about those assassins. I'm talking about the news on Rumlow."

Bucky froze. That statement left his stomach churning. Flashes of men, all different, all filled with missions and commands, passed through his mind. He didn't know which one of them of was Brock Rumlow. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was only sure he never wanted to see any of those men ever again.

"I thought he'd died. But he was strong, and I didn't have my wings," Wilson said as he exited the conference room behind Natasha. "I'm sorry. I'm going to make this right, don't you worry."

Bucky studied Wilson. Genuine regret was stamped across his face. Bucky could see why Rogers was friends with such a sincere man, but he could not fathom why Rogers had become friends with Bucky. What qualities had made Bucky Barnes a good friend to Steve Rogers? Had he once been like Sam Wilson?

As the rest of the Avengers filed out, Natasha knelt by Bucky. "We're going to put you somewhere else, somewhere safe, where Rumlow can't find you. And I'm going to find him and personally end him." Her gaze was hard, her jaw set.

"You should be the one to stay with Bucky, Natasha," Rogers said, his gaze seemingly fixed on the blank wall beside Bucky.

"We already discussed that I am the best qualified to find Rumlow, and you are the best qualified to guard Bucky." Natasha did not look back, keeping her gaze trained on Bucky. She rested her hand on his metal arm. "Stark thinks there might be something in your arm that lets them track you. That's how they knew where you were from outside even after I moved you to a new room."

Stark spoke up. "We need to get that arm opened up and cleaned out. However, that's delicate work, especially with the wiring already causing you pain. I need to study what you have before I can fix it. Give me a day or two. But I can put a dampener on your arm until I'm ready, which will hopefully stop whatever transponder you have in there. Unfortunately, you won't be able to move the arm for a while. Sorry."

Natasha tapped Bucky's arm. "If you take off the dampener, it will send a signal to my phone, and you'll be able to use your arm again. And I'll know you're in trouble. I'll come for you."

Bucky nodded, feeling relieved to know that if he needed her, Natasha would come. Natasha alone seemed to understand him, and he could understand her better than anyone else. Maybe even better than Barton.

Rogers sighed and glanced at Stark. "When you're ready, come find us."

"Fantastic. Locations help, generally."

"I'll be at your aunt's house. Your British aunt."

"I don't have an aunt. The closest I have is one of my father's old friends who I call Aunt—oh."

Rogers smiled a little and then nodded at Bucky, his smile fading. "Let's go. We have a long drive ahead of us."

…

Rogers said very little as he drove Bucky out of New York State and into the countryside. Bucky didn't recognize the landscape of dead trees and snow. After some time, cheerful signs welcomed them to Connecticut. Bucky didn't know much about Connecticut, other than that its spelling did not match its pronunciation. He sighed and cradled his cybernetic arm. It barely moved now, sitting mostly lifeless inside the sling Banner had given him. The dampening device that Stark had given him felt heavy, despite its small size. Bucky again wished he had a weapon. It would make him feel a little less vulnerable now that his arm was out. But no one offered, and it didn't feel right to ask, given how many people innocent people he'd killed the last time he used a gun. He could understand why they wouldn't trust him yet.

Bucky shivered. His left shoulder ached from the cold. Rogers hadn't turned on the heat, and he drove with his window cracked open. It was as if he enjoyed the cold. Bucky turned on the heat without a word and turned back to looking out the window.

"It gets a bit hot." Rogers turned off the heat. "I'll close my window." As he turned to do that, Bucky turned the heat back on.

Rogers glanced over at Bucky, looking irritated for once. That expression made Bucky feel much more at ease than Rogers's usual expressions of concern or hurt. "I really don't like the heat." Rogers turned the heat off again.

"But I do." Bucky turned it back on.

Rogers flipped it back off, his eyes narrowed. "I'm serious, it's unbearable. There's a blanket in the back, use that."

"I don't want to use a blanket, Rogers." Bucky flipped the heat back on and then wrenched the dial off with his flesh hand. "I want the heat on." Then he opened his window, flung the dial out, closed his window, and sat back, feeling oddly smug.

"You're still such a jerk," Rogers snapped, facing forward. He shrugged his jacket off and opened his window all the way, working his jaw.

"Punk."

Rogers slammed on the brakes. Behind him, two cars nearly piled into their car's rear end. Both honked loudly as they passed, and one person leaned out the window to make an obscene gesture. Looking sheepish, Rogers pulled over to the side of the highway before turning to Bucky. "What did you just call me?"

"A punk."

"Why?" Rogers looked oddly intent, and his irritation seemed to have fled. Instead, something lit in his eyes. "Why did you call me a punk? C'mon, Buck, tell me why."

Bucky blinked and tried to think why the word had come to his mouth. "Because—because that's what you act like." He felt a sudden swell of irritation with Rogers, accompanied by a powerful sense of frustration. "It always has to be your way, doesn't it? And you won't stop until you get it, even if it kills you. Just like—just like…" Bucky trailed off and realized he didn't know what it was just like. The mysterious frustration drained out of him.

"Just like when I kept trying to enlist in the Army despite how often you told me I'd get myself killed," Rogers finished. He swallowed hard and looked away. "Only I thought I'd gotten you killed instead. Do you remember any of it?"

Bucky tilted his head. For a moment, he saw Rogers, small and thin, staring at Bucky's uniform with naked envy, but the image quickly faded. "No. I don't know." He glanced at Rogers. "Maybe."

"Maybe." Rogers closed his eyes and smiled. "I'll take a maybe."

Bucky stared down at his metal arm. It twitched a bit when he tried to move it, but the glowing dampener that Stark had fixed kept him from doing much else with it. He felt a little raw at the moment and hoped Rogers wouldn't continue to push for more.

"And I would like to make a point that even if I do like to get my way, you're the one who just broke the heater dial and threw it out the window of a moving vehicle," Rogers said, rolling up the window as he pulled back onto the highway.

"Point taken."

"And while we're on the subject of me getting my way, don't ever call me 'Rogers' again. It's Steve. You know me. Got it?"

"All right… Steve."

…

Steve, as he insisted on being called, led Bucky into a well-decorated house. After the hyper-modern design of the Avengers' Tower, its wooden decor seemed quaint and old-fashioned. The outside was white and black, in classic New England style, and inside, the walls had been painted peach. Old photographs and still life paintings hung on the walls. After a moment of Bucky glaring at him, Steve reluctantly put on the heat and dropped their bags onto a couch covered with colorful blankets.

"Whose house is this?"

Steve rapped his knuckles against a large black and white photograph of a beautiful woman with dark lipstick. "Peggy Carter's. Until recently, she and her husband lived here whenever they stayed in America." He paused and swallowed. "They still own it, technically, but they're both in a nursing home now. I'm pretty sure neither of them will come back. Their children and grandchildren don't need it, so they told me I could come here whenever I liked. I pay a lady to come clean it every week. Maybe I'll buy it. It's a nice house."

Bucky studied the photograph. Peggy Carter looked healthy and vivacious in it, but the photograph was quite old. It had faded inside its frame. Next to it was another in a similar style, but of a familiar-looking black man wearing a friendly smile. Bucky stared at it, trying to place him, but failed.

"Gabriel Jones. He was part of our team during the war," Steve explained. "Peggy married him a few years after the war, though she kept her maiden name. I imagine they ran into a lot of trouble over their marriage back then. But I know neither of them would've let that stop them. I'm glad they found each other. Gabe's a good man. You and he were friends."

"I see. Did I know Peggy Carter, too?"

"A little. You asked her to dance once."

"And did we?"

"No."

Bucky studied Steve, who stared at Peggy's photograph, seemingly lost in thought. The expression on his face was not unlike the one he frequently gave Bucky. "Did you ever ask her to dance?"

"I did."

"And did you?"

"No." Steve looked away from the photograph and cleared his throat. "I had to take a rain check. For nearly seventy years later. But it turned out she couldn't even walk anymore, much less dance. That, and her husband might've taken offense."

Bucky glanced back at the woman. She wore a hint of a smile on her dark lips, but he thought he saw a bit of sadness in her eyes, too. "I'm sorry," he said.

"So am I." Steve sighed and fit a baseball cap on his head. The Brooklyn Dodgers' logo was emblazoned across it. "Look, let's head to the store and grab some food. I'll make you dinner."

…

After a surprisingly satisfying dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, Bucky headed to the room Steve had given him. It was next to the largest room and had a television set inside of it. Bucky sat on the floor and watched a show he liked about a man with ridiculous hair driving through America to eat at different restaurants. Bucky found the man insufferable, but envied his job. It seemed much more fun than being a retired brainwashed assassin.

As the show ended, Steve rapped on the door once, then walked into the room without waiting for a response. "Hey."

"What if I had been naked?" Bucky asked.

Steve paused halfway through sitting on the bed. "What?" he asked, turning an interesting shade of scarlet.

"What if I had been naked?" Bucky repeated. "That's what you're supposed to say when someone walks into your room uninvited, isn't it?"

"I knocked, and no—no, it isn't."

"But you didn't wait for me to invite you in, and that's what Natasha tells me every time I walk into her room without waiting for her to invite me."

Steve sat down and smiled a little. "And what do you tell her when she says this?"

"I always ask her why it matters if she's naked."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "Bucky, I can't picture you basically telling a woman as beautiful as Natasha 'so what' about being naked." He started laughing harder.

"Why?" Bucky asked, frowning.

"You—you used to be very fond of beautiful women. Maybe overly fond." Steve glanced up at the television with a thoughtful expression. "It still amazes me how different things are now."

Bucky turned back to the television. A new show had started, one about two men who lived together offering recipes and planning tips for dinner parties. He had seen it before. The men were very affectionate. "The television set? Or the TV show?"

"Well, after the invisible flying aircraft carrier, I adjusted to television and even cable TV pretty fast. And cooking shows make sense. No, it's those men." Steve exhaled slowly. "They're so open about it."

"Open about what?"

"They're a couple, Bucky. Together. Gay is the term they use for it now."

"Yes, I'm aware of the term. Homosexuality was invented before the twenty-first century, as you rightly pointed out to Barton."

Steve studied Bucky's face. He seemed to be searching for something. "And I guess you don't remember enough to know it wasn't something people were open about back in our time."

"Correct." Bucky turned back to the television. "Does their sexuality make you uncomfortable?"

"No. I don't worry about who other people love. I'm only concerned about the people I love." Steve leaned forward to stroke Bucky's hair. "Your hair is so long. Would you like me to cut it for you?"

Bucky found Steve's touch oddly gentle for such a strong man. It sent a strange thrill down his spine. "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want sharp objects near my head." Bucky turned his head to face Steve, but Steve didn't move his hand, so his fingers brushed Bucky's cheek. Warmth washed over him at the touch. "Are you trying to make me look like the man you knew? He kept his hair short."

Steve moved back to run his fingers through Bucky's hair. "You are the man I knew, Buck. You've just changed, is all. Long hair is fine. However you cut it, you have really nice hair."

Bucky turned back to the television. He shivered a bit under the touch, feeling Steve's fingers comb over his scalp. He felt lost for a moment in time, a scene playing in his mind like a scratched 16mm film. He and Steve sat on the steps of a red brick building, Steve a couple of steps above Bucky. They were both young teenagers drinking from glass bottles of Coca-Cola and laughing. The street before them was empty. Steve's fingers ran through Bucky's hair, fingertips trailing over his scalp, but Bucky's hair was so much shorter and Steve's hand so much smaller. "You have such nice hair," Steve whispered. "Mine's so thin and limp." Bucky tilted back into the touch, leaning back against Steve, smiling up at him. But Bucky could not remember what he said. Only that it seemed to alarm Steve, who withdrew his hand.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asked, jerking away on instinct as Steve moved closer to him. Most memories he had of people moving too close were of people trying to hurt him.

Steve pulled away, his expression not unlike that of a man just slapped. "Nothing. Sorry. I'm sorry." He stood. "Get some rest. I—never mind." He slunk out of the room and closed the door behind him.

…

_Next ==== >_


	4. A Trip Down Memory Lane (Have A Nice Fall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Bruce come to inspect Bucky's metal arm. Turns out they poke and prod more than just his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had previously indicated there would be a sequel to this, but plans have changed. The story will finish with this novella in Chapter 7.

...

Most people remembered at least some of their dreams, but Bucky remembered _in_ his dreams. His memories made as little sense as most dreams did. In one, he was a small boy sitting by a grave, scratching his name into the freshly laid dirt with a stick. In another, he was a grown man stumbling through a forest. A grenade went off near him and he dodged to roll away from it, but when he sat up, the world was blurry and he couldn't hear out of his right ear. Steve scooped him up like a bride and started running, demanding to know if he was alright. In yet another, the familiar-looking black man from the photo studied him over a mug of beer, gently pointing out that Bucky wasn't fooling anyone. In the last, a younger, smaller Steve gasped when Bucky slid a thigh between his legs.

Bucky awoke dripping with sweat, tangled in his blankets, almost painfully aroused. His metal arm lay uselessly at his side, but he felt a slight tremble in his flesh arm. He shivered as cold air hit his damp skin. Steve must have turned the heat off. Bucky pulled the blankets back up and rolled onto his side. A slight moan escaped him as the blankets brushed against his cock. He grabbed his cock through his clothing and swallowed as pleasure sparked through him. It was such a strange yet familiar sensation. His understanding of sexuality mostly came secondhand. The first recollection he had of having sex was that flash of his thigh between Steve's, but he wasn't entirely sure that even was sex.

Breathing deeply, Bucky closed his eyes again and willed himself back to sleep, hand still gripping his own cock. He wanted to stroke himself, but he didn't. If he did, he'd have to admit why he was aroused in the first place.

…

Bucky couldn't sleep. He'd always thought his double bed was luxuriant, but it turned out that it was a bit crowded with two people on it, even if one of those people was as small as Steve. He probably should've let Steve sleep on the couch cushions, but it seemed so silly before when he used to think his bed was big. Bucky could feel Steve's body warmth, and it made him even hotter. Not even the open window above their heads could help. The air didn't move, and Bucky sweltered under the sheets.

"Steve, hey, Steve, you asleep?" Bucky laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. Steve lay on his side, back to Bucky, hands tucked under the pillow.

Steve sighed deeply. "Not anymore," he said. His voice sounded so deep for such a small man, as if it belonged in a bigger body. Even as long as Bucky had known him, Steve's rich voice still surprised him. Everything else was so fragile, so delicate, but not that voice.

Bucky wormed his way closer, pressing himself against Steve's back. "I'm bored."

"Try sleeping. Works wonders on boredom."

"I did." Being so close to Steve made Bucky warm in new ways, ways that didn't have anything to do with the heat outside. Steve often made him warm. Nobody else seemed to think so, but Bucky thought Steve was beautiful. He breathed on the back of Steve's neck, enjoying the way it made Steve shiver. "Can't sleep."

"Did you really have to share that problem?" Steve asked. His fingers gripped his pillow tightly, and he stared fixedly off at Bucky's dresser. He hadn't tensed, yet he seemed tense nonetheless.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the heat, maybe it was simply the alluring way Steve's neck stretched out, but Bucky dared something he hadn't tried since elementary school. He kissed Steve's neck, slowly, gently, and when he pulled away, he waited for Steve's reaction. The last time, Steve had looked mildly terrified and wriggled free of Bucky's grasp, but he wasn't eleven anymore. He was eighteen and a high school senior. A heartbeat or two passed, but Steve gave no reaction. He simply lay there, staring at Bucky's collection of ugly knick-knacks on the dresser. He no longer clutched the pillow for dear life and his fingers lay relaxed around the linen.

"It's so hot," Bucky whispered, pressing himself against Steve's back. Knowing Steve could feel how hard he was, he kissed Steve's neck again, running his lips over the soft flesh. Fresh heat sparked its way through his lower body, and Bucky slipped his thigh between Steve's. The small gasp Steve gave thrilled him. Steve clutched Bucky's hand, his eyes wide as he stared at the dresser.

"Is it okay?" Bucky whispered. It was hard to tell if that had been a good reaction or a bad reaction.

Steve nodded once, and that assent was all Bucky needed. He wrapped his arms around Steve and kissed his neck again before moving up to his jawline. He could taste the salt of Steve's sweat. And when he started rubbing his thigh up against Steve's cock, he was rewarded with more soft gasps and Steve's hand tightening almost painfully around his wrist.

His entire body heated through, Bucky rubbed his cock up against Steve, sliding his thigh against Steve's cock as he rocked against him. Steve felt hard now, too, and he slid back against Bucky, breathing hard. The motion between them became Bucky's world. None of the girls he'd been with felt as good as Steve did in that moment. It felt simple, natural, and when Bucky came with a strangled cry, he felt a sense of relief that Steve had wanted him, too.

So, the next morning, when Steve pretended nothing had happened, it hurt even more.

…

Bucky woke to sunlight streaming through the window. He sat up, discovering his pants felt sticky and his groin sore. A quick check confirmed that he must've come in his sleep. He sighed and headed for the shower. Despite the trouble of cleaning up with only one good arm, Bucky felt a bit of relief as he stripped and stepped into the shower. It meant something about him worked like it was supposed to.

As he let the hot water run down his back, Bucky thought of his dream. He couldn't tell if it was a memory or a dream—or some combination of both. Though he'd felt like he was Steve's Bucky while dreaming, waking left him the perspective of a different person, remotely viewing the event. He could remember wanting Steve so bad it hurt, but that want seemed to lie behind glass now. If there were a connection between him and the other Bucky, it would be the connection between a sound and its fading echo. Bucky wondered if his dream had really happened, and what it meant, but thinking about it too much left him with the raw feeling he often felt around Steve.

After dressing and putting on his sling, Bucky headed out towards the dining room. On the table sat an open notebook with a pencil laid across it. Bucky could hear Steve in the kitchen, presumably making breakfast. Bucky sat down by the notebook and opened it. Inside, he found many sketches. Some were of New York, and some were of Washington, D.C., all drawn with precise detail. More interesting to Bucky were the pictures of people. Many of the Avengers were in there, all depicted with startling talent. Thor and Natasha comprised most of the images, sketched in various poses. The artist had captured Natasha's intense calm perfectly, the way she held her weapons, the way she stood. There was a single image of an elderly interracial couple. A black man hunched on a chair by the bed of a white woman, their fingers intertwined. Something about that picture seemed inexplicably sad. Bucky flipped through the pages and soon found himself. The drawing became nothing but him, sleeping, standing, walking, training, eating, combing his hair, even showering. There seemed to be a lot of studies of his hair and his metal arm.

Steve appeared at his side, holding plates of food and frowning. "Those are private."

"You drew these?" Bucky asked.

"Yes. Could you please close the book?"

"You drew me."

"So I did. If it bothers you, I'll stop. Either way, please set it aside." Steve placed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon before Bucky.

Bucky closed the book and set it by an empty chair. "You're upset that I looked."

"It was my mistake for forgetting to put it away." Steve sat down by his own plate and pulled the book over to him. His entire body seemed tense, as if expecting an attack.

Bucky set upon his plate and devoured half of it before speaking again. "It doesn't bother me."

"What?"

"You said if it bothers me, you would stop drawing me. It doesn't bother me."

Steve smiled, and the tension in his shoulders disappeared. Before Steve could answer, Bucky noticed movement outside the window. The doorbell sounded. Bucky stood, frowning, reaching for a gun he didn't have. Instead, he grabbed a fork. There were many ways to kill people with a fork, though he once again wished they trusted him with a gun.

"Don't worry," Steve said, peering through the window. "It's Stark. And Banner."

…

Stark and Banner set themselves up in the living room. Stark seemed to know where everything was without being told. Banner remained silent as he set up his things and refused the snacks Steve brought, accepting only a glass of water. Stark, on the other hand, helped himself to the snacks without hesitation.

"You're going to make someone an excellent housewife one day, Cap," Stark declared through a mouthful of chips as he plugged in his laptop. "Did you make the dip yourself? And these little bacon wrapped sausages are incredible. Also, I'm out of Coke."

"The Coca-Cola is mine," Bucky told Steve. "He can drink the swill you bought for yourself."

Steve looked as if he were confused as to who he should be glaring at. "Cherry 7-Up is not swill," he told Bucky before turning back to Stark. "And you could at least say 'please.'"

"Pretty please?" Stark grinned as he sat down on the couch. "Only two ice cubes. If you have any cherries, throw them on top of both the drink and my 'please.'" 

Steve sighed and then headed back into the kitchen. As he did so, Stark glanced about the room. "This place brings back memories. I spent a few Christmases here when I was a kid. Aunt Peggy was almost as good a host as Capsicles. Terrible cook, though. Good thing Uncle Gabe saved us. Now, that man could cook. Between him and my mother, I had my best Christmas dinners here."

"If you have no aunts, why do you call her your aunt?" Bucky asked.

Stark studied Bucky with an unusually solemn expression. "Don't know. Nobody told me to. I just did it. I saw her and Uncle Gabe more than my own father as a kid, honestly. They were good to me. Their kids were much older than me, so I don't know, it was like they kind of spoiled me because their own kids were grown. They had a good working relationship with my father that went back to the war, I think. They felt like part of my family." He sighed. "I should go see them more often."

"Why don't you?"

"I guess you don't know what it's like to visit old people, huh?" Stark started placing electrodes on Bucky's arm without asking. Bucky restrained the urge to backhand him. "It's not easy, seeing people you care about grow old and start to die. Aunt Peggy doesn't even remember me half the time. She thinks I'm my father. Once she kept insisting she wasn't interested in fondue and to keep things professional. That sounds funny, right?" Stark swallowed before speaking again. "But another time, when I told her who I was and that my father was dead, she started weeping uncontrollably, like she'd just found out he'd died. That was the last time I visited."

Stark had never had a serious conversation with Bucky before. In fact, they'd never had much of a conversation at all. Despite himself, Bucky was interested. When he wasn't being flippant and selfish, Stark had a certain manner that captured Bucky's attention. "Why doesn't she remember you?"

Steve returned with a glass of Cherry 7-Up, with two cherries and two ice cubes floating in it. He handed it to Stark, who took it without thanking him before turning back to Bucky. "She has Alzheimer's. Chews up her memories and spits them out. And when she does remember, she has to relive it. It's pretty brutal," Stark said.

Bucky glanced down at his cybernetic arm. "Sounds like brainwashing. Or maybe recovery from brainwashing."

Stark dropped his glass of Cherry 7-Up. Steve stared at Bucky with wide eyes. Only Banner moved to pick up the glass and set it on the coffee table.

"Brainwashing and dementia may have more in common than most would think," Banner said. "Though only the former is malicious."

…

Steve hovered so much during the examination that Stark kicked him out. He eventually left to purchase groceries and make them an early dinner while Stark and Banner had Bucky sit on a wooden chair.

"The scans weren't clear, and they still aren't. In order to find out exactly what HYDRA might have implanted in there, I'm going to have to open up your arm," Stark said, putting goggles on his face. "Bruce will keep an eye on your health. I'll do my best to avoid cutting anything important."

"Your best?"

"My best is usually good enough. Usually." Stark grinned and pulled out a laser cutter. "Clench up, Chuckles, I doubt this is going to feel good."

Banner knelt by Bucky and filled a needle with a green liquid. "It's likely going to hurt like a bitch, Mr. Barnes. I'm going to give you this local anesthetic, but we can't sedate you, as we need to monitor your nervous system." Bucky nodded, and Banner quickly injected him. Banner wrapped a hand around Bucky's wrist, checking his pulse, and left it there. "I want you to close your eyes and count backwards from a thousand. Look at the pictures on the wall. Do not look at your arm."

Stark fired up the laser cutter and bent down by Bucky's arm. Bucky turned to the wall, staring at the photos of Peggy Carter and Gabe Jones. As he started counting, the pain started, a throbbing that traveled from his arm right into his spine. The painkiller wasn't enough to eliminate the pain. It was a good thing his arm was still disabled by Stark's dampener, or he'd have backhanded Stark. Just thinking of a man cutting open his arm left him struggling to breathe regularly. He started to turn his head towards Stark, but Banner reached up and gently redirected him to look at the wall. Bucky swallowed hard and focused on the photo of Gabe Jones's face. 

He continued to count.

…

The night seemed darker and colder than usual, but perhaps that was because there were only the two of them left by the camp. Bucky sat by the small campfire, cleaning his guns under the flickering lights. Gabe sat by the radio, headphones fixed on his head, staring listlessly at the remaining walls of the house they had camped in. Steve was with the other Commandos, burying the corpses of the resistance fighters they'd been too late to help. Bucky tried not to think about them, especially not the children. He tucked everything he felt into a corner for another day. He focused on his guns instead. He'd killed a lot of Nazis that day and expected to kill more the next day. His guns let him make the world right.

"Why do you always say a number after you shoot someone?" Gabe suddenly asked, pulling the headphones down around his neck. "I'd noticed it before, but today there were a lot of them."

Bucky glanced up from his gun. "So I don't lose count."

"Lose count of what?" Gabe asked, though his eyes seemed to suggest he already knew the answer.

"Of how many people I've killed."

Gabe nodded. "And it's important that you know?"

"You don't think it is?"

"Are they even people?" Gabe's chin trembled. "You saw what they did to the resistance here. And I know what they did to you back at the work camp the Captain rescued us from. The others didn't see it, but I did. People don't do that to other people."

"If they're not people, then what are they?" Bucky leaned against the wall, his gun in his hand. Steve had his shield, but he had his guns, and they protected him. So long as he had his guns, he was safe. He hadn't had his guns in the work camp. "They can't be animals. Even animals wouldn't do what they're doing. They can't be monsters—those don't exist. They have to be people. Only people are that evil."

Gabe hung his head. "I don't want them to be people. Because if they're people, and I'm people, who's to say that one of us can't become one of them? Maybe even me?"

Bucky gave a dark chuckle and stared up at the bright moon. "So don't lose count."

…

"Breathe!" Banner ordered, gripping Bucky's chin with one hand and his wrist with the other. "Breathe. In and out."

Bucky stared down at him, gasping for air, his chest heaving, his cybernetic arm on fire. He tried to turn his head, to struggle away, but Banner had a good grip on him, and he was strong, stronger than usual. Bucky swallowed and focused on him, seeing a faint tinge of green on Banner's skin, but as Bucky calmed, so did Banner. Bucky breathed deeply, forcing himself into a regular pattern

"I lost count," Bucky said. Something wet slid down his cheek.

"It's okay," Banner said, his grip weakening on Bucky. "Start over."

"I mean I lost track of all the people I killed," Bucky whispered, wondering how many he had killed in the last seventy years. He was no better than the monsters that had made him. He'd listened to their lies, let himself forget, hurt others so he wouldn't hurt. If he counted backwards from a thousand, could he account for every person he'd murdered?

Banner fell silent for a long moment, his eyes hooded and dark. "It's okay. Start over."

…

By the time Steve finished dinner, Stark had finished his work on Bucky's arm and Bucky had calmed. Steve insisted they eat while he explained. Steve had made fried chicken cutlets, broccoli with cheese, salad, and mashed potatoes. Even with only one arm working, Bucky made sure to grab as much food as he could before the others and sat down with his plates. Having his cybernetic arm cut open, worked on, and then closed up again had left him ravenous.

"He stole most of the dinner rolls," Stark said in a wounded voice. He glanced at Banner.

"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not giving mine up."

"But you have two!"

"Mr. Barnes has—" Banner studied the dinner roll basket that Bucky had taken. "—eight."

Stark turned to scowl back at Bucky. "I spent all day inside your arm. Can't you spare at least one?"

In answer, Bucky grabbed each roll and quickly took a small bite of each. Stark's mouth gaped in what Bucky presumed was offense, but Bucky held fast to his belief that those who wished for more food should move faster.

"Don't worry," Steve said, carrying another basket of dinner rolls as he exited the kitchen. He also carried more plates of chicken and potatoes. "I thought ahead."

"You truly are America's greatest hero," Stark said as he grabbed a handful of bread.

As Steve sat down, Banner looked over at Bucky. "Are you sure you don't feel any side effects?"

Bucky nodded and continued to eat. He felt raw and found it difficult to speak, but because of how much he'd remembered, not because of anything Stark had done to his arm.

"Supersoldier resilience." Banner shook his head. "At least this bodes well for future procedures."

"We have to replace your arm," Stark said around a mouthful of food. "I was able to take out what I think was the transponder, but there's numerous suspicious safety features tethered to your nervous system that I can't remove without taking out the arm. Or leaving you paralyzed for life, given how it's all wired into your spine. I'm going to need a few days to build you a new one similar to your design. I might even be able to improve on it. In the meantime, leave that dampener on. I know it's a pain in the ass, but those safety features look nasty. One might even be magnetic, which is categorically bad for people with metal arms."

Banner spoke up. "I'll do the work on your shoulder when we replace your arm. I've been consulting with different surgeons, so it should go well."

"Then we'll remain out here while you work on that. Natasha hasn't found Rumlow yet, and we don't need HYDRA assaulting us while we wait," Steve said with a frown.

Stark nodded and devoured a large piece of chicken, not that he let it stop him from speaking again. "I'm heading back to the tower to work on the new arm. I'll call you when I'm ready."

"I want to keep the red star," Bucky announced.

Stark blinked. "You do? Why?"

Bucky ran his fingers over the red star. "It came from Russia. So did Natasha. I want to keep it."

Steve glanced down at his dinner, frowning ever so slightly, but Stark shrugged. "If that's what you want, it won't be hard," he said.

"Good." Bucky turned back to his meal.

…

As Steve helped Banner pack up the equipment into the van, Stark stood by Peggy Carter's and Gabe Jones's photographs on the wall. He studied them with his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he seemed to notice Bucky watching him and turned around.

"After my father died, we didn't talk as much." Stark turned back to the photos. "He was the glue that held us all together like family, even if he wasn't around much. Funny to think that, after a fashion, Captain America is part of my family, too." He glanced back at Bucky. "Seems like Romanoff is part of yours."

"Yes."

Stark continued to study the photos silently for a long moment. "I should visit them. I owe them that. Maybe you should, too, Chuckles. Uncle Gabe, at least, was a friend of yours. I mean, he named his son after you. James Buchanan Jones."

That bit of information startled Bucky. "Maybe I will," he choked out.

Stark turned around fully and studied Bucky. "You know, when you first showed up at the tower, I wondered if you were the one who killed my parents in that car crash."

A sudden wave of cold swept through Bucky, leaving him sick to his stomach. He gripped the wall with his flesh hand and stared at Stark.

"But I realize now that it doesn't matter. It was HYDRA. Not you." Stark glanced down. "And I was arming the bastards that killed my parents. Maybe even literally. I recognized some of my own tech in your arm."

Bucky stared at him. He swallowed hard, wishing he knew what he should say. He felt as raw as he usually did around Steve. But this time, he didn't try to bury the feeling. He let it sit there, in the open, where it could heal.

Stark looked back up, smiling wanly. "Wow, what an awkward conversation. Don't worry about it. I'll get you fixed up in no time."

Banner came in, rubbing his face. "Time to go, everything is loaded. You drive back—I'm too tired to keep my eyes open." Behind him, Steve stood on the porch, giving Stark and Bucky an odd look, as if he somehow knew what they'd been discussing.

Stark took a deep breath, nodded, and turned to leave. As he walked past, Bucky grabbed his arm. Stark glanced back at him, blinking.

"Thank you." Bucky glanced at Banner. "You, too." Banner dipped his head.

"Don't mention it, Chuckles," Stark said. "Just don't tell anyone I'm slipping a Communist design on something I built and we'll call it even."

Bucky sat on the porch and watched Stark and Banner drive away. He huddled under his coat and tried not to shiver, as it only acerbated the ache in his shoulder. After a while, Steve handed him a cup of hot chocolate and sat next to him. Despite how raw and strange his day had been, Bucky felt almost normal for the first time in seventy years. When Steve put an arm around him, he leaned into the touch.

For the first time since they'd met again, Bucky felt truly grateful for Steve's presence.

…

_Next === >_


	5. The Youngest Old Men in the World (Go on a Dinner Date)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old-fashioned romance, in the literal sense only.

...

"So," Steve said over a breakfast of store-bought muffins, "I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner today. Should be safe enough, with your transponder gone. How do you feel about pizza?"

"I like bacon pizza."

"Really?" Steve smiled. "That was always your favorite."

Bucky picked at his arm sling, bored with his bran muffin. He wanted one of the blueberry ones, but he'd already eaten the last of them. "You're always very happy whenever I say or do something that reminds you of who I used to be."

Steve blinked. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

"No. I suppose I am not very likeable as I am."

Steve set his muffin down and swallowed. His brows furrowed and he took a long moment to speak again. "I wouldn't say that. The old you was my best friend in the world. My family. But the new you… you are different. And maybe we're not so close anymore. But I like your deadpan sense of humor. And how you get down to business and don't let anything get in your way. You're more honest than you used to be, for sure. And I like the hair."

Bucky reached up to touch his hair. He'd pulled it back into a ponytail, finding the hairstyle Natasha had shown him to be quite comfortable. "My hair?"

"I wasn't so sure about it at first, because it made you look different, but I do like it long."

"I fail to see why my hair would make any difference in your opinion of me now."

"Oh." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. His face reddened. "I'm, uh, I'm going to find something to do until lunch. I think I'll clean the kitchen." He stood up abruptly, bumping the table and spilling some of the orange juice. He mumbled something about cleaning it up later and disappeared into the kitchen.

Bucky sighed.

…

After a couple of hours, Bucky grew bored watching food programs. He headed to the deck at the back of the house, where Steve was napping, having apparently exhausted himself cleaning the kitchen. Steve was sprawled over a plastic lounge chair, a newspaper draped over his chest. He slept with his mouth open, as he always had, Bucky suddenly recalled. A trickle of drool seeped from his mouth and he snorted at thirty second intervals. Bucky sat down on the plastic lounge chair next to Steve and stared at him. He'd once found how Steve slept cute. After a moment's reflection, he supposed he still did.

Eventually, Steve sat bolt upright. The newspaper slipped off of him as he reached for his shield, but his shield was in the front of the house. Steve blinked, noticing Bucky. "Er, hello?"

"Hello."

"Is something wrong?"

"One of my former HYDRA handlers is sending assassins to kill me, my cybernetic arm requires replacement because it is filled with HYDRA safety precautions, and I suffer from acute amnesia. Other than that, no."

Steve smiled a little. "I really can't tell if that's supposed to be funny or not."

"Why would it be funny?"

"Well, I mean—" Steve sighed. "No, it's not funny."

"Yes, it is."

Steve blinked again.

"It's called gallows humor," Bucky explained. "Or black humor. Finding humor in bleak situations."

Steve chuckled. "You said it so deadpan. Maybe you're even better at sarcasm than before."

"So you actually think something is better about me now?"

Steve fished the newspaper from the floor and leaned back against his chair again. "You keep acting like I think there's two of you and you're in competition with yourself. That's not true at all. You're Bucky Barnes. You've always been Bucky Barnes. You've changed, but so have I. Most people do as they grow older. And we're two very old men."

"No, we're not. Physically and mentally, I'm approximately thirty. You're maybe a year or two younger."

Steve sighed. "You're the first person to remind me I'm not actually in my nineties. It's strange. I feel old, even though I'm not. What about you?"

"I…" Bucky considered. "I don't feel young. I don't think I feel old, either."

"At least you're feeling something."

"Yes, I suppose." Bucky studied Steve. "I am not a very good friend to you, but you are a good friend to me. Thank you."

Steve closed, then opened his eyes and gave a small smile. "Bucky, you're my best friend. Even now, you're my best friend. You've always stood by my side, took care of me when I did stupid things. Fair is fair, and now it's my turn to take care of you." He closed his eyes and sighed. "There are so many things I want to talk to you about. So many things I want to ask you. About the war, about what's happened to you, about… us."

"Us?"

"You don't remember." When Steve opened his eyes again, he didn't look at Bucky. "It's probably better that you don't remember some things. I was a stupid kid."

Bucky stared at Steve's neck. He thought of the dream that could have been a memory, of kissing Steve's neck. Steve's neck was thicker now, more muscular, but its curves looked the same. "Tonight, at dinner, ask me anyways. Even if I don't remember, I can still tell you what I think now. I'm not completely empty." He stood up and headed back into the house to watch more food shows.

Steve watched him leave with his mouth slightly open.

…

The pizza restaurant turned out to be a small place emblazoned with a logo of a chubby woman in a colorful dress holding a platter of pizza in one hand and a handful of tomatoes in another. The words "Zia's Pizzeria" arched over her head. "The reviews on Yelp were very positive," Steve explained as he pulled into a parking space.

Bucky blinked. "Yelp?"

"It's a very helpful website. People review places, so you know what's good. I'm not sure why it's called 'Yelp.' Maybe the creator couldn't spell."

"You spend your spare time going onto websites called 'Yelp' so other people can make your decisions for you?"

"Well, that and I think I'm developing an internet pornography problem," Steve said. As Bucky stared, he turned the car off and climbed out. After a moment, he poked his head back in through the door. "That last part was a joke, Bucky."

"Why is it funny?" Bucky climbed out as well and studied Steve over the roof of the car.

Steve grinned. "Because I'm Captain America. I'm not supposed to be the kind of guy who gets addicted to internet pornography."

"I see."

"You don't have to sound so skeptical."

"Is that how I sound to you?" Bucky turned around and started heading to the door. He still wasn't sure why Steve's joke was supposed to be funny, but gallows humor was about all he appreciated these days.

Steve beat him to the door and held it open. He bowed with a great flourish. "After you."

Bucky paused. He could see Steve holding open a door to another pizzeria, only Steve was so small that he struggled with it as he bowed with the same great flourish. Before Steve could catch it, the door swung back into him and bowled him forwards. Bucky caught him, laughing, calling him a punk.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

Bucky exhaled. Steve obviously didn't have any more trouble holding doors open. With a nod, Bucky walked past Steve, into the dark restaurant. Weak lighting hung over every table, and the brick walls gave the impression of being inside a basement. 

"Hey," Steve whispered, putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder. Before Bucky could respond, a waitress headed towards them and Steve withdrew his hand.

"I have a reservation for two under Steven Grant," Steve said.

The waitress nodded and led them to a table in the corner. Bucky slid into the booth so his back was against the wall and he could see the door. Steve slid in across from him and studied him.

"Reminds me a little bit of Papa's back in Brooklyn. It closed years ago. Now it's a phone store." Steve glanced around. "All that's missing is the smoke, but they don't let people smoke inside restaurants anymore."

Bucky ran a finger over the low-hanging lamp. "I think I remember Papa's."

"You do?" Steve folded his hands. "Do you remember other things?"

"Some things. Ask, and I'll tell you if I do."

"Are you sure, Buck? Some of my questions are pretty heavy."

"I'm sure."

The waitress came and took their order, but once she left, Steve folded his hands and studied Bucky intently. "How much do you remember about me?"

Bucky examined his silverware, trying not think of them as weapons. "Bits and pieces. Mostly when you were small and skinny."

Steve took a moment to speak. "That's more than I thought." He studied Bucky. "Do you remember the war?"

"Also bits and pieces." Bucky tilted his head. "I don't care to remember it."

"No, I don't suppose you would. When I found you again, you were different. I don't know exactly what they did to you when HYDRA first captured you, but you were so withdrawn." Steve's eyes glistened under the lamp light. "You didn't talk much. You sat apart from the others. Even your attempts to woo girls were half-hearted and ended in failure. We all seemed to have an unspoken agreement back during the war, where we sort of ignored each other's pain. And I'm sorry for that. It was a bad choice. I should have asked you about what happened. I should've been there for you. But I wasn't and then I completely lost you. But when I think back, I think I was losing you even before the assault on Zola's train."

Bucky didn't know how to respond to that. He remembered repeating his name, rank, and number, over and over, and the pasty face of a man wearing round glasses, but little else. He actively avoided pursuing those memories.

"In fact, you're not that different from how you were during the war. I'm so sorry, Bucky. I should stop wishing you'd go back to how you were before the war. I'm not the same man I was before the war, either. I was such a stupid kid, thinking I needed to be out there, saving the world. I couldn't even save my best friend, much less the world." Steve hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a long moment of silence, Bucky slid his hand out and touched Steve's. Steve looked up, his gaze so intent that Bucky couldn't move. A swell of emotions threatened to burst forth inside of him.

Their pizza arrived. Steve sucked in his breath and smiled weakly at the waitress as she slid their food and drinks onto the table. Bucky still didn't know what to say, what to feel, so he set upon the food. As always, it proved to be one of the few simple pleasures in his life. The bacon pizza was particularly good, and Bucky jealously guarded it from Steve. Steve didn't seem particularly interested the food. He picked at it, his expression glum. His questions seemed to upset him more than they had Bucky. A change of subject seemed to be in order.

"Did we ever share the same bed when we were younger?" Bucky asked.

Steve choked on his pizza. Bucky watched him for a moment, wondering if he should do something, but Steve sorted himself out, managing to swallow his pizza and then guzzled down half his soda. As Steve wiped his mouth, he stared at Bucky with wide eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Steve nodded. "You—do you remember doing that?" he croaked.

Bucky stared down at his pizza. The question suddenly made him feel hot and cold at the same time. He thought of the memory-dream of them in bed together. He shrugged.

"Whatever you remember, don't hold it against me," Steve said. "I used to be ashamed of… certain things I felt. But the world is different now, and I'm trying to catch up. I'm not ashamed any longer."

"What would I hold against you?" Bucky asked. He wanted Steve to admit it. A part of him, maybe even the ghost of that boy who had been hurt so long ago when Steve rejected him, needed Steve to admit it first.

Steve smiled uneasily. "I'll tell you later." He started eating his pizza again.

After a moment, Bucky did the same.

…

Bucky studied the tiny dampener still on his arm as he and Steve walked back towards the house. Ahead of him, Steve walked up to the door, but paused with his hand still outstretched. When Bucky drew up beside him, he found Steve had the same intent expression on his face that he'd had earlier.

"I'm bisexual," Steve said flatly. "That used to be something you couldn't admit."

Bucky studied Steve, unsure what to say, and it didn't seem like Steve was finished.

"And we… we had sex once," Steve said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I had just graduated high school, and I stayed at your house while my mother was in the hospital. The first night you told me we could share your double bed. It was hot and—and we had sex. But the next morning, I felt so guilty, scared everyone would find out about us, and I just tried to act like it hadn't happened. You can hold that against me. I wasn't fair to you at all."

Bucky studied him. He felt deep satisfaction at those words, as if he'd been waiting for decades to hear them. "I remember."

"You remember more than I give you credit for." Steve slipped his hands in his pockets. "But you keep it all under your hat."

"I'm not wearing a hat."

"I didn't mean it literally, Bucky," Steve said, opening the door.

Bucky moved a little closer, feeling as if the glass between him and the Bucky in his memory-dreams had finally been removed. "I know. It was a joke."

Steve turned to study Bucky, his gaze heated. After a moment he stroked Bucky's hair. "You stuck by me, though. Even after that."

"I did mention something about the end of the line once, didn't I?" Bucky dropped his gaze to Steve's lips. "I don't remember very much, but I remember enough to know that there's really nothing you could've done to make me leave."

Steve slid his hands over Bucky's face and then kissed him fiercely. Bucky warmed instantly and wrapped his arms around Steve on instinct. It felt odd to be so close to someone, to touch them, to kiss them, but it wasn't unfamiliar. He knew this feeling. He realized he'd wanted it without knowing he'd wanted it. He closed his eyes.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do that since seeing you again," Steve said after he came up for air, his hands still cupping Bucky's face. "I want to be with you again. Like before."

"You don't care that I'm not the same Bucky?"

Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky's. "I'm not the same Steve. But you're still Bucky and I'm still Steve. You're with me, and I'm with you. There's nothing you can do, nothing you can become, that will make me leave you, either."

…

"Bucky," Steve whispered, kissing Bucky's neck again. Bucky closed his eyes, drinking in the feeling of Steve behind him, touching him, kissing him. He still remembered no more than he had before, but he somehow knew it had been too long since he'd been touched like that. He couldn't even feel the pain in his shoulder anymore, even though his metal arm still lay uselessly in its sling.

Steve pressed closer to Bucky, his skin hot beneath the thin shirt he wore, the cloth damp from sweat. Steve rested his cheek against the back of Bucky's head, his hands sliding over Bucky's chest, pulling him even closer, as if he wanted to fuse their bodies together. One hand slid down between Bucky's legs and cupped Bucky's stiffening cock. "God, I want to be inside you," he whispered into Bucky's ear. "Is it okay?"

Bucky exhaled. He could remember feeling like this around Steve before, but now his want took shape in a different form. They had both changed, become different men. Now it was Steve who expressed desire, and Bucky who held it inside. He nodded, pressing back against Steve, relishing the heat between them.

"I'll be careful," Steve whispered, ghosting a hand over Bucky's aching left shoulder before moving him up, towards the headboard. Bucky reached out with his flesh arm and gripped it for balance as he came to his knees. He glanced back as Steve stripped off his jeans, revealing smooth skin and a cock larger than Bucky recalled. When Steve pressed against him again, his cock felt hot and hard. Steve didn't let go of him, even when he leaned over to the nightstand to drag over a bottle of lotion. Bucky waited, letting Steve do as he wanted. Bucky gasped in surprise when Steve's lotion-covered fingers slid inside him, stretching his opening. After a moment, he adjusted to the sensation. It wasn't unpleasant, just rather unfamiliar.

"Ready?" Steve asked, his voice huskier than usual.

Bucky glanced back at Steve over his shoulder, studying his flushed face, his hooded eyes. Steve wanted him, and he remembered enough that Steve's desire made him happy. He also remembered enough to know he wouldn't want anyone but Steve with him like this. He didn't remember anyone else, and they didn't matter. Bucky smiled a bit and nodded once.

Steve exhaled and pushed himself in Bucky. There was a slight burn, a sense of fullness, and Bucky gasped, trying to adjust to the new sensation. He gripped the headboard tighter, his knuckles whitening, and his arm muscles straining to hold him up.

"Don't tense," Steve whispered. He took Bucky's cock in hand and stroked it gently. "Relax. Relax."

Breathing deeply, Bucky did his best. After a few moments, Steve started move, thrusting gently. He soon hit a sweet spot that left Bucky gasping in pleasure. He forgot the mild discomfort and leaned back against Steve, nearly sitting on his lap, as Steve thrust up into him. Steve held him tight, whispering into his ear, but Bucky could hardly make out the words. Steve's hand gripped him tighter, stroking his cock up and down, in time to his thrusts. The feeling of Steve around him, inside him, was enough that Bucky unplugged from every reality that wasn't Steve.

Heat built through Bucky's body, easing the tension in his shoulder, dissolving the pain. He didn't worry about his useless arm. He focused on Steve, on his movements, on his touch. Steve bent him forward, thrusting harder than ever, but still pressed against him, still whispered inaudible things into his ear, still pumped his cock. Bucky gasped into the pillows, rocking forward with every thrust, gripping the headboard for balance. Sweat dripped off of him and onto the bed. When Steve finally came, Bucky nearly lost his grip on the headboard. He could hear Steve calling his name, over and over, his hand still working Bucky's cock until he, too, came. White-hot pleasure burst through him, and a tension he hadn't known existed inside of him finally released.

Steve eased them both onto the bed, still breathing heavily. Bucky lay next to him, content for the first time in approximately seventy years. As they caught their breaths, Steve slid his hand over Bucky's metal arm, pausing once his fingers brushed over the dampener. Steve studied Bucky's face. "Does it hurt?"

Bucky glanced down at his arm. "The arm or my shoulder?"

"Either."

"Only the shoulder."

"You still don't act like you're in pain." Steve stroked Bucky's face, wiping off the sweat. "Everything's going to be fine, you know."

Bucky only nodded and rested his head on Steve's shoulder. "I know," he lied.

…

_Next == >_


	6. Going to All the Same Places (Meeting All the Same People)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all of those places are worth revisiting.

...

When Bucky woke the next morning, Steve was still sleeping. Bucky studied Steve's back. The strong bone structure and the corded muscles seemed so unfamiliar to him. They were beautiful, though. Steve had always been beautiful, but now he seemed to be perfect. Two strong flesh arms, no visible scars, all as if carved out of marble. Bucky gently stroked Steve's left arm, envying Steve's unmarred humanity.

Steve snored and rolled over, breaking the spell. Smiling fondly, Bucky slipped out of the bed to shower. He felt sore from the previous night's activities, but it was a soreness he welcomed. After bathing, Bucky walked through the house in his boxers and a robe. He paused by the photos on the living room wall. Peggy Carter and Gabe Jones seemed trapped there, behind glass, frozen in time, much as Bucky had been for the last seventy years. Bucky felt a sudden urge to see them. He needed to see the past living in the present, to know it was possible.

"Hey, you showered without me?" Steve asked, yawning as he entered the living room naked. Bucky admired the way his muscles moved when he stretched.

"Is there something wrong with that?"

Steve grinned. "Yeah. It sounds lonely."

"Oh. You wanted to have sex in the shower." Bucky reflected on this. "It sounds uncomfortable. At least while I only have one working arm."

"Fair enough. Well, then, how about breakfast?"

"Only after you put some clothes on."

"Oh." Steve glanced down. "That matters to you?"

"Only because I want bacon, and if the grease pops while you're nude, we'll both be sorry."

Steve laughed. "Good thinking. There's definitely certain places I don't want hot grease."

Bucky glanced back at Peggy's and Gabe's photos. "After breakfast, maybe we should visit them. I want to see what they're like now."

Steve's laughter faded. He considered the photos, then Bucky. "Maybe we should."

"Bacon first," Bucky said, heading over to the television to watch food programs while he waited.

…

Steve didn't say much on the drive to the nursing home. He seemed thoughtful. Bucky gazed out the window at the passing scenery. He tapped absently at his dampener, thinking of Natasha's promise to come if he took it off. He wondered what she was doing, if she was safe, what she would think of his developing relationship with Steve.

The nursing home was a large one-story building with terraced roofs. It sprawled across a huge green lawn, neat and trim. The patio off to the side sat empty, no doubt due to the cold, but the large bay windows revealed elderly people reading books on plush cushions and sofas. A couple of them seemed to be watching television. Nurses and orderlies in white wandered around, checking on their charges. It reminded Bucky of a resort.

 

"Nice home, really. Wouldn't mind retiring here myself one day." Steve tucked his shield under the blankets in the back of the car and turned to Bucky. "You sure you want to do this? I'm not going to lie. It's not easy seeing them. They're so… old."

"Yes. I should see them. It's important."

"Yeah, it is." Steve sighed, then got out of the car. Bucky followed him. After they checked in at the desk, Steve glanced back at Bucky. "I'm going to go check on Peggy first, see how she is. You go on ahead and see Gabe. You two probably need to talk without me."

Bucky nodded. Steve pointed him to Gabe's room. Once Bucky reached the door, he knocked once. After a moment, he heard a familiar voice with an unfamiliar tremble tell him to come in. Bucky pushed in the door.

The room was dark aside from the light of a heart monitor and a television playing a police show on mute. Bucky could see rows of framed photographs sitting on every available surface though it was too dark to make most of them out. A dry cough drew Bucky's attention to a man sitting up in bed.

Gabriel Jones was much thinner than Bucky ever recalled, his fingers resembling spider legs and his head covered in thick white hair. The eyes he gazed at Bucky with were the same, however, if a bit more watery and red. His lined face seemed to sag like the bulky sweater he wore.

"Bucky Barnes." Gabe's bottom lip trembled. "So you are still alive. I've been waiting."

"Someone told you I was coming?"

A loud thud sounded behind Bucky, and the heater and the television snapped off. Bucky looked around, realizing the power had been cut. The hairs on the back of Bucky's neck stood up.

Gabe grabbed Bucky's wrist. "Listen to me, Bucky. There are three HYDRA agents in my wife's room next door, holding her hostage. They've been here for days, posing as orderlies and nurses, waiting for you and the Captain to show up. They likely already took the Captain by surprise. I want you to kill them."

Stomach churning at the thought of Steve being hurt, Bucky twisted his wrist until he held Gabe's hand, his fingers clasping Gabe's bony ones. "What about your wife?"

"She'd want you to kill them, too," he said, his eyes steely.

"You said three?" Bucky ripped his dampener off, and his metal arm came to life, the plating shifting to adjust. Natasha would come soon. That thought kept him centered, focused on what had to be done rather than on what could happen.

Gabe nodded. "They'd blocked all my phone calls out, otherwise you'd have known sooner. I'd have tried to take them out myself, but I don't move so well anymore. And glaucoma made it so I don't see well enough to shoot."

Bucky nodded. "Then that will be six."

"Six?"

"I started a new count. I've killed three HYDRA agents so far. Three more makes six."

When Gabe smiled, his teeth were unnaturally white and perfect. "My gun's in the sock drawer."

…

Bucky leaned against the wall of the nursing home, Gabe's gun in hand. Gabe sat in his wheelchair, leaning forward to peer out of his door at Bucky. He was old and frail now, but his gaze was the same as it had been when he sat by Bucky in an old French cathedral, listening to the radio and telling him the positions of the Nazi soldiers in the muddy field below. Bucky smiled a little at the memory. Not a single Nazi had lived long enough to meet Captain America as he marched across the field with the rest of the Howling Commandos.

As Bucky opened the door, he ducked back along the wall. He waited a moment, but nothing happened. He glanced in, but the room was darkened and nothing moved. Nodding once at Gabe, who had paled, Bucky stalked in, gun pointed forward.

"There's really no need for that," a familiar male voice said.

Bucky blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. A man in blue scrubs sat in a plush chair, a large gun in his lap and a smaller one in his hand. Blood dripped from the handle. Though he was covered in burn scars, Bucky recognized the man's rough-hewn face. His memories wheeled by as if on a film strip, and he could now recall who exactly Brock Rumlow was.

"If you don't drop the gun, the old bitch dies." Rumlow gestured at a bed where an old woman lay, her eyes wide, not with fear, but with fury. Another man in an orderly uniform held a gun to her head. Rumlow leaned forward. "And she'll be the first. Second will be Natalia Romanova."

Bucky almost dropped his gun. Something cold spread through his gut that he swiftly realized as fear. He stared at the burned man, his hand trembling. He could potentially take out the orderly and the burned man fast enough to spare the old woman, but if they had Natasha….

"So that name does mean something to you. I figured it might, given your shared history in the Red Room. You've been remembering. We'll have to wipe you clean, start over again." Rumlow shook his head. "She's already in our facility, where you and Rogers will be heading shortly." He gestured to a crumpled figure lying on the floor. Steve. Some sort of blinking dart stuck out of his shoulder, and another orderly crouched by him, handcuffing him. Bucky choked back bile at the sight. "I'm not afraid to make him the third. We can get what we need from his corpse just as well."

"I don't believe you have Natasha."

Rumlow pulled out a phone and thumbed it. After a moment, he turned it around for Bucky to see an image of Natasha, bruised and bloody, kneeling on a metal floor with her hands cuffed behind her back. "We have her angel friend, too. Sam Wilson. We have very powerful allies. The twins, to be exact. Do you remember the twins?"

An image of a young girl with long black hair and a boy with short white hair floated through Bucky's mind. The boy moved so fast that Bucky couldn't see him, and the girl—the girl could warp reality around her. Their powers defied understanding. Bucky shuddered. He had killed many people with the help of those twins. With this memory came another of their handler, Wolfgang Von Strucker. Every memory he had of that man came with a flash of unbearable pain.

Bucky dropped Gabe's gun. "Leave the old woman be."

Rumlow stood, his handgun trained on Bucky. "Fine by me. Any threat Peggy Carter posed us is long gone." He waved at the orderly near her, and the man lowered his gun. "We're going to cuff you now. Don't resist," he told Bucky.

Bucky put his arms behind his back. As he let the orderly pat him down and handcuff him, he studied Rumlow and the scars he bore. "What do you want with Steve and Natasha?"

"Me?" Rumlow smirked. "Nothing. But Von Strucker's got plans. Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about."

Bucky felt sick, but he didn't have time to dwell on it once he heard Peggy Carter croak his name. She struggled to sit up, her large eyes filled with tears, her hand shaky and pale as she reached for him. "Bucky—Bucky, you're alive," she moaned.

Rumlow chuckled. "To think that woman used to be our greatest threat after the Captain got shoved in the freezer. Look at her. All she can do is weep and reach for her old friend."

Peggy's hand reached Bucky's flesh wrist. Her fingers felt rough and dry. She pushed something into his hand, something thin and cylindrical. "Bucky," she whispered, tears sliding down her face as she stared up at him. Her touch was weak, her voice tremulous, but he saw knowing in her eyes. He saw himself in her, confused, weakened, but not as powerless as others believed.

"Make sure to stop by their car on the way out," Rumlow told one of the orderlies. "I want Captain America's shield. I'm going to paint a swastika on it."

As Rumlow dragged him away, Bucky nodded once at Peggy Carter, closing his fingers around the gift she'd given him.

…

Bucky remembered the facility he was led into. On instinct, he started to struggle once they passed the door, but realizing that going in was the only way to save Natasha and Steve, he went rigid, letting the HYDRA agents drag him in. Steve was brought in on a stretcher, bound tightly with several blinking darts embedded in his flesh. Fear swallowed Bucky just as he entered the building. How many times had they hurt him here, conditioned him here? He couldn't remember them all. But he remembered the pain and the loss of himself each time. They were going to take him away again. Every small thing he remembered, every fragment of personality he had recalled, they were going to erase . He threw up all over the HYDRA agents that strapped him to his chair, satisfied when they reeled back in disgust. Between his fingers, he held the long slim piece of metal Peggy had given him. They were so distracted by the vomit that they didn't check him as thoroughly as they should have.

Now wearing combat gear and his crisscrossed weapon holsters, Rumlow sat next to Bucky, studying him silently. Nearby, Steve was wheeled by on a gurney, strapped down with blinking metal cuffs, unconscious. Bucky tried to remember to breathe, tried to remember that Steve was Captain America now. They wouldn't break him so easily.

"It bothers you, doesn't it? Watching your friend suffer?" Rumlow tilted his head. "How low you've fallen."

"How did you take him so easily?" Bucky croaked.

"Easily? Von Strucker spent the last two months developing the right kind of tranquilizers to drop him like a sack of rice. That was a lot of hard scientific work." Rumlow leaned forward and whispered. "I tested them on Romanoff before we left. She's no supersoldier, but the Red Room did make sure she was a cut above. Now that we have Rogers, we'll make serums from his blood. She'll be the first person we test it on, to see if it's safe."

White-hot fury roared through Bucky. He strained against his metal cuffs, trying to grab Rumlow's neck so he could squeeze the life from him, but his chair roared to life and pinned him back. The familiar hum of metal arms above him left him shaking.

Rumlow chuckled. "You're so angry." He brushed Bucky's hair from his face, almost tenderly. The touch made Bucky's skin crawl. "You used to like me, I think. Always did what I said without question or complaint. You were pretty good at sucking cock, too." He ran a thumb over Bucky's lips. "But you just couldn't get it up. I always found it sort of funny, the great Winter Soldier, impotent as a drunk old man."

Dozens of memories threatened to boil over of Rumlow's voice whispering commands Bucky never thought to disobey, no matter how humiliating they were. Bucky did not dwell on them. Instead, he bit down on Rumlow's thumb hard enough to taste blood. But Rumlow made no sound. He never even twitched. He just stared at Bucky with his cold, dead eyes as he wrenched his thumb free, blood dripping across his fingers.

Rumlow stood, cradling his wounded hand, and nodded at the technician standing by. "Game over. Yes, I would like to play again."

The metal arms lowered around Bucky's head, the hands fitted across his face. Before electricity even arced though the machine, bringing with it searing, brilliant pain, Bucky started screaming, but not in pain.

He screamed in rage, the fresh taste of HYDRA blood still in his mouth.

…

The world was covered in red mist, hazy and filled with blood. Bucky heard a terrible moaning noise. He rolled his head, trying to remember how his body worked. His senses returned to him in pieces, all but for his sight, which remained red and formless. After a while, he realized the moaning noise came from him.

Bucky could hear Rumlow's voice. "Why is it not working?" he demanded. Bucky couldn't see him, but the sound of his voice alone was enough to make him struggle against his bonds. 

"I don't know," another man said, this one unfamiliar. "It had always worked before. Do you want me to ask the Baron?"

"He's busy with Rogers and Romanoff. Just up the power."

"Sir, that could fry his brain entirely."

"Listen to me, you little shit," Rumlow hissed. "I don't give a fuck what it does or doesn't do to him. Do as I say or the first test subject for Von Strucker's new serum will be you."

A pause. "Yes, sir."

Bucky recalled Peggy's gift, but it had slipped from his fingers. He fumbled around on his seat. His thumb brushed over the metal cylinder just as he heard the metal circle click into place again. Too late.

Agony hit him like a tsunami, leaving him drowning in a burning sea.

…

Time meant nothing to Bucky any longer. He had been set adrift in his memories, floating in a void littered with useless fragments. In one, he hung from a ripped open train, reaching for Steve just before he fell. In another, he cocked his sniper rifle and shot at an American president riding by in a car with his well-dressed wife. In another, he was marching in the rain, falling behind the other Howling Commandos until they slowed their pace to match his. In another, he taught a young Natasha how to fire a gun. In another, he fired his sniper rifle at Nick Fury, though all he could see through his scope was the blond man Fury spoke to. In another, Steve and Natasha introduced him to the rest of the Avengers. In another, Brock Rumlow pulled off a black hood with a white skull mask and leaned close to ask Bucky if he always did what he was told. In another, he marched towards Howard Stark's speeding car, gun in hand, but before he could fire, Stark swerved to avoid him, and his car slid on the ice until it sailed off the nearby cliff. In another, Steve kissed Bucky in front of the door to Peggy Carter's house.

Peggy Carter.

Reality fell into place. His vision blurred and meaningless, his hearing sporadic, Bucky took a deep breath and closed his fingers around Peggy's gift. He stroked the small cylinder until he felt a slight depression that might be a button. He pressed it.

Everything went dark, and the hum of the metal circle fell blessedly silent.

"What the—?"

The sound of the man's voice was enough to force Bucky up and over to him. He grabbed the man's neck with his metal hand and squeezed until he heard a satisfying crack. He dropped the corpse by the time the emergency lights came on. His vision remained hazy, and the lights left wet circles, but it gave him enough to lurch across the room. He wrenched the door open with his metal arm.

The first HYDRA agent stupidly came close enough that Bucky could disarm him and snap his neck at the same time. Dead man's gun in hand, he marched forward, firing at will. He stepped over every man he killed, looking for Steve, Natasha, and Sam. The alarms wailed and red lights flashed. Bucky stormed his way through the wet, red world, killing everything. He whispered a number each time, determined to not lose count again. He made it to twenty-one.

When Bucky emerged into the large medical examining room, he recognized the man in the blurry white and black mask standing in his way. But before he could fire, his metal arm suddenly jerked down to the ground. It was if Thor pinned it to the ground with Mjolnir. Bucky struggled, but nothing short of ripping himself free of his metal limb could separate him from the floor. He fired at Rumlow with his flesh arm, panic gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, but the man moved fast, too fast for Bucky's weak vision to keep up with. Masking his footsteps to the timing of the wailing alarm, Rumlow kicked the gun out of Bucky's flesh hand and pinned his flesh hand behind his back. He kicked out Bucky's legs, leaving him off-balance.

"Magnetic safety in your cybernetic arm," Rumlow whispered. "I'll make sure to include it in the right cybernetic arm, too, once we attach it." He yanked on Bucky's right arm violently. Excruciating pain shot through Bucky's arm, forcing a scream to bubble out of his mouth. Rumlow had broken his right arm.

The pain cleared Bucky's vision. Ahead, he saw numerous medical rooms behind glass doors, all meant for observation. In one of the rooms, Sam Wilson lay crumpled across a cot, one arm dangling off the side. Another room's glass doors had broken open, red blood smeared across one. The door to yet another glass room lay neatly open, with a pile of Steve's bloodied clothes and his shield abandoned on the floor. Bucky tilted his head, ignoring the pain, ignoring Rumlow whispering in his ear about all the things he was going to do in payback for Bucky's insurrection. All he could do was wonder where Natasha and Steve were.

"Rogers is dead, you know. Von Strucker already took what we needed from him. Romanoff survived the procedure," Rumlow whispered. "We'll program her before you, so you can watch while I'm going to—"

A wet metal sound rang out, and the pressure Rumlow exerted on him disappeared. Bucky turned around to see Natasha holding Steve's shield above her head, her white hospital gown stained almost completely red. She wore a fierce grin, her eyes practically glowing green. On the floor, Rumlow crawled away, blood dripping across the metal floor, as silent as he'd been when Bucky had bitten his finger.

"All you're going to do is die screaming, Rumlow," she said, almost cheerfully, and brought the shield down across his neck. The edge bit into his flesh, but she pulled back before it went it too deep. Blood splattered across the floor. "Oops, didn't sever your neck yet. Silly me. Let me try again."

Natasha proved correct. Brock Rumlow did, in fact, die screaming.

…

_Next = >_


	7. Twenty-One Gun Salute (Funeral for America)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the line?

...

It didn't rain at Steve's funeral, and Bucky resented that. It should've rained. The sun shouldn't have been allowed to come out ever again. But the sun callously shone over the funeral.

Bucky didn't listen to the eulogy. He'd been asked to give one, but he'd refused. What could he possibly say? He was no actor. Rumlow had lied—Steve was alive, but he was different now. He could barely walk on his left leg. Von Strucker had over-used it to draw blood and bone marrow and other things Bucky didn't understand. But Steve had lost his strength, his speed, his stamina. All of that was inside Natasha now. His old illnesses were returning, asthma among them. His hands shook, and his muscle mass had decreased by half. Though he remained tall, he was more like the Steve that Bucky remembered—the skinny boy who had been the most important person to him. Steve was more like Bucky now, a man with pieces missing inside of him.

Tony Stark's eulogy moved most to tears. As Steve had requested, only the Avengers knew he was still alive, so their eyes alone remained dry. All of them still bore the look of mourners, only they mourned the death of Captain America, not Steve Rogers. Steve wanted to retreat from the public eye, from his superhero identity. For the first time since Bucky had known him, Steve was willing to give up. He needed to lay Captain America to rest. Bucky didn't know what the Avengers would do without his leadership. It wasn't his problem. He would remain by Steve's side, as he was always meant to. Stark himself broke down weeping rather convincingly by the end. Natasha had chosen the right man to deliver the eulogy—Stark proved a talented actor. His fiancée, Pepper Potts, helped him down from the podium.

Thousands of people showed up to the funeral, filling Arlington Park with people wishing to pay their respects to Steve Rogers. Millions watched it live on the news through the dozens of news reporters filming the events. The president himself, surrounded by a flock of Secret Service agents, stood by the casket during Stark's eulogy. War Machine, in his patriotic-colored metal suit, also stood guard. Only two Howling Commandos had been strong enough to make it to the funeral: Gabriel Jones and Dum Dum Dugan. Gabe watched Bucky the entire time, though Dum Dum sobbed like a baby. Banner studied the empty casket, and Wilson, still covered in bandages from Von Strucker's exams, stood beside it without looking at it. Thor, with a sober-looking Jane Foster on his arm, set a small model of a Viking ship atop the casket. Barton and Natasha stood at either side of Bucky, silent, stone-faced, still. Natasha still held Steve's shield, long since wiped clean of Rumlow's blood. Bucky would not have come if not for Natasha.

At the end, War Machine fired a twenty-one gun salute for Captain America. Bucky twitched with every shot, counting as they went off. One, two, three—he could see Steve, young and small, introducing himself to Bucky, hands clasped behind his back, his dirty shoes untied, his big blue eyes filled with unusual brightness. Four, five, six—Steve had an asthma attack, clutching his chest, wheezing, crouching in the dirt, while Bucky held him and shouted for help. Seven, eight, nine—Steve didn't meet his gaze the next morning, ignoring every question Bucky asked about their night together. Ten, eleven, twelve—Steve eyed Bucky's uniform with undisguised envy. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—Steve, tall and strong, pulled Bucky up and out of the hell he'd been lost in for months. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—Steve screamed as Bucky fell from the torn-open train. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—Steve stared up at Bucky, his face broken and bloody, and promised him he'd be with him until the end of the line.

Bucky had only killed twenty-one HYDRA agents. It hadn't been enough. 

As the empty casket was lowered into the grave, Bucky noticed a familiar-looking black man in a dark coat and a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. Though he wore sunglasses, Bucky could not help but recognize him. Bucky exchanged nods with Nick Fury and watched as Fury disappeared back into the crowd. Bucky wondered if Fury knew Steve was still alive, then dismissed the thought. How wouldn't he know?

Bucky remained by the open grave, waiting for everyone to leave. They eventually did. The president was first, followed shortly by War Machine. The crowd slowly dispersed, and the news crews went home. Thor and Jane left hand-in-hand, while Banner made his way past the crowd. Clint slipped off after giving Bucky a firm handshake. Stark made his way over to Bucky and studied him. Pepper stood beside him, her gaze fixed on Natasha.

"Are you going to be all right?" Stark asked Bucky.

Bucky shrugged. "No more or less than before."

"Will _he_ be okay?" Stark asked in a low voice.

Bucky thought of Steve, sitting on the couch of Peggy Carter's old home, listlessly watching the tribute documentaries about his life on television. "I don't know. Maybe not right away."

Stark nodded and glanced at Bucky's flesh arm, still in a cast from Rumlow's vicious break, as well as the new cybernetic arm he'd attached to Bucky the week before. "Everything working out okay?"

"As well as can be expected." Bucky nodded. His shoulder no longer ached thanks to Banner's surgery, and he felt lighter with his new cybernetic arm. But even with his superhuman resilience, his wounds still took time to heal and his arm time to adjust. Steve could barely walk, and Bucky could barely eat or shower without assistance. He knew they would both heal, but only with time.

"What will you do now?" Stark asked.

"Von Strucker escaped. But all the HYDRA agents we captured indicated his magic twins escaped during the power outage," Natasha said. "So he's vulnerable now. And I've made it my new life's work to hunt him down like the animal he is." She stretched out her fingers, then balled her fist. She had Steve's strength now, added to all the skills she'd learned from Bucky. She was the best of both of them now, their child in a fashion. Von Strucker would die badly.

Stark swallowed. "If you need help with that, let me know."

"And what about you?" Pepper asked Natasha, gripping her shoulder in support. "Bruce said they gave you a serum from Captain America's blood. I know you've healed physically, but are you all right? If you need help learning to control your new abilities…" Pepper trailed off. Bucky knew little about her, but he knew she had powerful abilities she'd been working to keep under control for months.

Natasha gave Pepper a wan smile. "Don't worry about me. I've already got it under control." Bucky wasn't sure if that was the truth, but he knew better than to question Natasha. She wouldn't answer with the truth, in any case. Steve's answer to what had happened was that of a soldier. He laid down his weapons and retreated. Natasha's answer was that of a spy. She lied and kept going, no matter the cost.

Remembering the sliver of memory about Howard Stark, Bucky swallowed and fixed his gaze on Stark. "Stark, about your father—"

"Don't," Stark said, smiling wanly. "Some things are best left unknown." He walked away with Pepper then, as if to escape any possibility of ever knowing what had really happened to his father. Bucky couldn't exactly blame him for that.

As Stark and Pepper disappeared, Bucky looked around. Dum Dum had already left, carted away by nurses fixing his oxygen mask to him, but Gabe remained, sitting in his wheelchair. Bucky nodded once at Natasha and walked over to him alone.

Gabe was silent for a long moment. "Is he alive? Tell me the truth."

"Yes," Bucky answered. He would not lie to a friend. "But he's… lost his strength."

Gabe shook his head. "He has you. He'll get by." He studied Bucky, his expression somber.

"And I have him."

"I've attended too many damn funerals for you boys. You once and now him twice. You tell him to come visit me and Peggy at our new home."

Bucky took in a deep breath. "Understood."

"Understood, _sir_. I left the army with the rank of Lieutenant, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky could not help but smile. "Understood, sir."

"I better get back home. You mind wheeling this old man to the van?"

Bucky nodded and pushed Gabe's wheelchair towards his waiting van. "How is your wife, sir?"

"Doesn't remember a thing. I've never been more grateful for that."

"Even so, thank her for me."

"Thank her? For what?"

Bucky let go of the wheelchair as the nurses approached to take care. Gabe stared up at him, waiting. "For the electromagnetic device she gave me. It turned out the room I was held in was just above the generator, so I was able to take out the whole facility's power with it. Without her help, we would still be in HYDRA hands. Because of her, we're alive."

"She gave…" Gabe's eyes filled with tears. "That's my girl. She doesn't know what year it is, but she still knows how to take care of business."

"She does. Goodbye, Gabe."

"Goodbye, Bucky Barnes."

Bucky walked back to where Natasha waited for him, Wilson by her side.

…

Natasha helped Bucky into the living room of Peggy Carter's old house. Steve still sat on the couch where they'd left them, watching food programs now. The only sign that he had moved was the blanket draped over his shoulders. He looked up when Natasha and Bucky entered, his eyes hooded.

"Doin' all right, man?" Wilson asked, false cheer in his voice as he sat on the arm of the couch by Steve. He scratched absently at the bandages on his head.

Steve glanced at him, then back at the television. "The documentaries irritated me, so I learned how to make quiche instead."

"I like ham, swiss, and asparagus quiche the best, for reference," Natasha said, then held out Steve's shield. "Stark gave a very moving eulogy."

"Yes, I saw most of it." Steve took the shield and rested it on his lap. He smoothed his hands over it, his expression dark. Bucky sat down next to him.

Wilson watched Steve and the shield. "May Captain America rest in peace," he said quietly.

Steve snapped his head up and furrowed his brows. "That's not what that funeral was for, Sam. That was to lay me to rest. I've reached the end of the line. I don't have the strength to be Captain America anymore. My tour of duty has finished. But the war isn't over yet. We need another soldier." He held out the shield to Wilson. "I want you to be the new Captain America."

Wilson's eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He seemed to almost fall off the couch, but managed to regain his footing as he stood. "I—I… I don't know what to say."

"Say 'yes.'" Steve's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He still held the shield out, though his thin arms trembled. "I can't think of anyone better for the job, Sam. You do what I do, but don't think you do it slower. You do it your own way. This is how wars are won. One soldier falls, and another takes his place. I'm an old soldier, from another time. But you—this is your time. Yours and Natasha's. Just like Natasha inherited some of Bucky, I'd like you to inherit some of me. If you want."

Sam studied him silently for a long, then glanced around at all of them before taking the shield with a solemn expression. "I'll do my best to make you proud, Captain."

"Don't call me Captain. You're the Captain now, Captain." Steve smiled, though his voice broke.

Silence fell over all of them, until Natasha cleared her throat. "I'm going to order pizza for dinner."

Bucky spoke up. "Bacon pizza—"

"—and Coca-Cola, I know," Natasha said, shaking her head. "Any other requests?"

No one else requested anything, so Natasha left to go place the order. Wilson drifted outside to the deck. Bucky watched as he sat down on deck chair and stared at his new shield, still absently scratching at bandages.

"Did you mean what you said?" Bucky asked, still watching Wilson through the glass door. "About this being the end of the line?"

"For me as Captain America, yes. For Captain America as something that belongs to any American, no."

"What about for you?"

"And us?" Steve leaned close, studying Bucky with his big blue eyes. "That's up to you, Buck. I'm not—" His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "—I'm not the same."

"Neither am I. But I'm still Bucky and you're still Steve," Bucky said, using Steve's own words. "'You're with me, and I'm with you. There's nothing you can do, nothing you can become, that will make me leave you.'"

Steve smiled and took Bucky's new metal hand in his. After a moment, Bucky convinced it to close around Steve's hand without squeezing too hard. As big as Steve's hand remained, it trembled ever so slightly.

"Then I guess this isn't the end of line," Steve whispered.

…

_End._


End file.
